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THE 


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WORKIN G-M A N. 




BY CHARLES QUILL, 

AUTHOR OF “THE AMERICAN M E C H A N I C.” 



PHILADELPHIA: 

HENRY PERKINS, 134 CHESTNUT STREET. 

BOSTON: PERKINS AND MARVIN. 

114 Washington Slrsst. 


18 39. 


T- 



HP *870 n 

.^ 5 * 



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Entered according^ Act of Congress, in the year 1839, by 
Henry Perkins, 

in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Eastern District 
of Pennsylvania. 



PRINTED BY T. K. AND P. G. COLLINS. 


STEREOTYPED BY L. JOHNSON.PHILADELPHIA. 














PREFACE. 


If this little book shall be read with pleasure 
in the shop of the mechanic, during intervals of 
labour, or in the evening when work is over, the 
author’s purpose will be in some degree answered. 
As the title shows, it is an offering to the work¬ 
ing-man. The apprentice, the journeyman, and 
the master-mechanic will here find recreation and 
perhaps improvement. But it aims not so much 
at systematic instruction, as to quicken, to cheer, 
and to amuse. 

It is no part of the plan of the work to bring 
down every thing to the level of the meanest 
capacity. Were this attempted, it would be lost 
upon the stupid and ignorant; while to persons 
of sense and improvement, all that is said will be 
clear enough, without any such degradation of 
the style. Even children are offended with the 

3 





4 


PREFACE. 


extreme of forced simplicity; especially as some 
of them know that if they never hear a hard word, 
they will never get beyond the easy ones. All 
our knowledge is gained by mingling things yet 
unknown with such as are known already. It is 
thus we learn both to talk and to read. To attempt 
nothing but what is known, is to shun the water 
till one has learned to swim. In this persuasion, 
the author has not scrupled to introduce some 
things for the special benefit of more advanced 
readers ; as, for example, the short essays on the 
cultivation of memory. For the same reason, a 
pretty free use has been made of the stores of 
English poetry. The working-man, no less than 
others, has a right to these treasures of his mother 
tongue, and may enjoy them with the greater 
freedom, as they require no previous scientific 
training to make them intelligible. 

By some readers it will be seen at once that 
the following work is a sequel to the American 
Mechanic; a third edition of which has lately 
come from the press. The unexpected favour 
with which that little volume was received, has 
encouraged the writer to persevere in his endea- 


PREFACE. 


5 


vour to afford pleasing instruction to the indus¬ 
trious classes. He has here attempted a book 
which may equally suit the family and the com¬ 
mon school, but with a perpetual reference to such 
as labour with their hands. To them and to their 
households it is offered with the best wishes of 
their friend, 

Charles Quill. 


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CONTENTS. 


Page 

I. The Working-man’s Home. 9 

II. The Working-man’s Dwelling. 14 

III. The Working-man’s Garden and Grounds.... 19 

IV. Husband and Wife. 27 

V. The Wife at Home. 32 

VI. The Working-man’s Daughter.... 38 

VII. The Schoolmaster. 45 

VIII. The Schoolmaster, continued. . 50 

IX. Early Reading. 55 

X. Reading for Beginners. 60 

XI. Reading for Entertainment. 65 

XII. The Working-man in search of Knowledge.. 71 

XIII. Study by Stealth. 78 

XIV. The Art of Drawing valuable to Mechanics.. 85 

XV. The Cultivation of Memory. 94 

XVI. The Cultivation of Memory, continued . 101 

XVII. The Working-man’s Journeys... 108 

XVIII. Apprentices. 114 

XIX. Trades’ Unions. 120 

XX. Trades’ Unions, continued. 124 

XXI. The Working-man’s Liberties. 130 


7 





















8 


CONTENTS. 


Pa«e 

XXII. The Working-man in a strange land.... 135 
XXIII. Advantages of American Working-men. 139 
XXIY. The Village Talker. 144 

XXV. The Pleasures of the Table. 149 

XXVI. Drinking and Drunkenness. 155 

XXVII. The Working-man’s Health. 161 

XXVIII. Baths and Cleanliness. 167 

XXIX. Intemperance and Disease. 175 

XXX. Money. 183 

XXXI. Risks and Speculations. 188 

XXXII. Th% Working-man in Want. 197 

XXXIII. The Village Revisited. 202 

XXXIV. The Contented Working-man. 209 

XXXV. Who is the Working-man?...215 

XXXVI. Home Pleasures. 224 

XXXVII. The Working-man’s Evenings at Home. 233 

XXXVIII. The Working-man in the Country. 238 

XXXIX. The Working-man’s Saturday Evening. 243 

XL. The Unstable Working-man. 249 

XLI. The Working-man’s good Works. 258 

XLII. The Working-man’s Rest. 264 

XLIII. The Working-man retired from Business 270 

XLIV. The Working-man in old Age. 275 

XLV. Conclusion. 284 





















THE 


WORKING-MAN. 



THE WORKING-MAN’S HOME. 

“ Tell me on what holy ground 
May domestic peace be found! 

Halcyon daughter of the skies, 

Far on fearful wings she flies 
From the pomp of sceptred state, 

From the rebel’s noisy hate.” 

Coleridge. 

There is a peculiar zest in the working-man’s 
enjoyment of home. After weariness both of body 
and mind, he has a refuge at the close of the day— 

“ Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of home 
Is sweetest.”* 

There are languages, it is said, in which there 
is no such word as Home : in our mother tongue 
there is none more pregnant. It marks the sacred 
spot to which the cares and tumult of the world 

* Coleridge. 


9 



10 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


do not reach; and where, except in cases of ex¬ 
treme depravity, its vices do not intrude. If there 
are gentle affections in the heart, they will break 
forth around the hearthstone ; if there is an hour 
of tranquillity amidst perturbed life, it will be that 
which is spent with wife and children; if there 
is such a thing as friendship or love, it will be 
developed among these dearest associates. 

Homeless men are seldom happy. If it was 
not good for man to be alone, even in Eden, it is 
bad indeed to be alone in such a fallen world as 
ours. But I will go farther, and assert the moral 
influences of domestic institutions. As it regards 
public offences, the man who has a wife and child¬ 
ren has by just so much a greater stake in society. 
He has much both to gain and to lose. He can¬ 
not rise or fall alone. As it regards private virtue, 
it depends much on the kindly affections, and these 
are in their very shrine in the family circle. I 
think I have observed that when a man begins to 
go astray, he becomes less fond of home. The 
quiet look of the wife speaks daggers to his guilty 
conscience. The caresses of children are so many 
reproaches to the man who knows that he is 
wasting their very livelihood by his habits of dis¬ 
sipation. I think I have observed that the most 
rude and quarrelsome men are orderly and quiet 
when they go abroad with their wives and child¬ 
ren. Such is the safeguard of virtue which is fur¬ 
nished by the influences of home. 


THE WORKING-MAN ? S HOME. 11 

I would have the home of the working-man his 
most delightful resort. To be so, it should be 
pleasing, even its outside. Why should it not be 
a well-proportioned cottage, with its windows 
overhung by sweetbrier and honeysuckle, and its 
roof shaded by spreading trees ? Why should 
not the little door-yard be carpeted with grass, 
and hedged with shrubbery ? These are not 
luxuries of the rich alone. Yet it is too common 
for people to think that because they are poor 
they must be slovenly and dirty. A little white¬ 
wash, a little paint, a little turfing, and a few days 
of labour about the vines and flowers, will serve 
to change the whole appearance of the humblest 
enclosure. 

But let us enter the working-man’s house ; and 
in order to meet the extremest objection, I am 
supposing the case of the poorest. The walls 
should be white, the floors and wood-work should 
be scoured, the movables should be in their places, 
and no unsightly utensil should be more conspi¬ 
cuous than necessity requires. These are exter¬ 
nals, but they bear directly upon what is more 
inward and more valuable. Everybody is more 
cheerful in a neat than in a disorderly room. 
When work is over, and every thing in its place, 
the visiter is more welcome, the husband’s look 
is brighter, and an affectionate flow spreads itself 
through the circle. 

The difference between England and America 


12 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


on the one hand, and the southern countries of 
Europe on the other, is founded in a good mea¬ 
sure on the homes of the former, and the absence 
of them in the latter. The common law has ac¬ 
knowledged the principle, that every man’s house 
is his castle. It is true in more senses than one. 
Home is the citadel of all the virtues of the people. 
For by home we mean something more than one’s 
house : it is the family that makes the home. It 
is the peculiar abode and domain of the wife: 
and this one circumstance marks it out as 
human, and as Christian. Sacred wedlock is 
the fountain not only of its pleasures but of its 
moral excellence. The poorest wretch who has 
a virtuous, sensible, industrious, and affectionate 
wife, is a man of wealth. Home is the abode of 
our children. Here they meet us with their smiles 
and prattle. He who unfeignedly enjoys this 
cannot be altogether corrupt; and the more we 
can make men enjoy it, the further do we remove 
them out of harm’s way. No men therefore are 
better members of society, or more apt to become 
stable and wealthy citizens, than such as are well 
married and well settled. 

A learned foreigner of Spanish descent, of high 
distinction in the politics of his own country", was 
once leaving the doors of a pleasant family, in 
New England, where he had been spending an 
evening. He had observed the Sabbath calm of 
the little circle—its sequestered safety and inde- 


THE WORKING-MAN’S HOME. 13 

pendence; he had marked the freedom of affec¬ 
tionate intercourse between parents, and children, 
and friends, the cordial hospitality, and the refer¬ 
ence of every thing abroad to this central spot of 
home. As he retired from the lovely scene, he 
exclaimed, with a sort of transport, “ Now I have 
the secret of your national virtue, and intelligence, 
and order; it is in these domestic retreats !” 

v. •• •; ' ' >.* . ; , • v « 

“ Domestic happiness, thou only bliss 
Of Paradise that has survived the fall! 

Though few now taste thee unimpair’d and pure, 

Or, tasting, long enjoy thee! too infirm 
Or too incautious to preserve thy sweets 
Unmix’d with drops of bitter, which neglect 
Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup; 

Thou art the nurse of Virtue, in thine arms 
She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is, 

1 Heaven-bom, and destined to the skies again !”* 


14 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


II. 

THE WORKING-MAN’S DWELLING. 

“ When we mean to build, 

We first survey the plat, then draw the model; 

And when we see the figure of the house, 

Then must we vote the cost of the erection.” 

King Henry IV. part 2. 

There is such a satisfaction in having a house 
ot one’s own, that most Americans begin to think 
of building as soon as they are rich enough. It 
is proverbial that this becomes a mania, even in 
the country, with men of wealth In quantity, 
therefore, we have no lack; the defects are in the 
quality of our architecture. For want of observing 
the plain dictate of reason contained in my motto, 
many great houses are finished less splendidly 
than they were begun. As I seldom take a walk 
without seeing the dwelling of some mechanic 
going forward, I am anxious to make a few sug¬ 
gestions on this point. 

A good site is almost every thing: in such a 
land as ours, few are compelled to build in bad 
situations. Yet half the houses we see in the 
country are disadvantageously placed. How little 
advantage is taken of native groves ! I have in 


THE WORKING-MAN’S DWELLING. 15 

my eye a very costly edifice, just near enough to 
a beautiful copse to tempt the belief that the pro¬ 
prietor wished to avoid its shades, while he is 
making a strenuous effort to bring forward some 
starveling trees in a miserable clay before his door! 
The general design is next in importance: this is 
what strikes the distant beholder. The eye is 
shocked when, in a clever building, the door has 
three windows on one side and five on the other. 
The proportions of length and height, the pitch 
of roof, the number, and size, and arrangement 
of lights, are all matters which demand careful 
study, in order to produce a good effect; but in 
most cases they are left to chance or whim. Sym¬ 
metry is as cheap as disproportion, and rich men 
should not monopolize all neatness and taste. A 
good plan gives beauty to the plainest materials, 
while no expense can render a false proportion 
elegant. A well-designed cottage, of the humblest 
dimensions and simplest fabric, fills the eye, and 
gives repose to the mind. But finery cannot hide 
bad taste; it oftener betrays it. We may here 
apply Crabbe’s couplet— 

“ Faults that in dusty pictures rest unknown, 

Are in an instant through the varnish shown.” 

Men who come suddenly to wealth are greatly in 
danger of falling into this trap. The showy in 
architecture is usually coupled with the vulgar; 
just as in dress the finest are not the truly well- 


16 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


bred. Pope has satirized this abuse of orna¬ 
ment: 

« Load some vain church with old theatric state 
Turn arcs of triumph to a garden gate ; 

Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all 
On some patch’d dog-hole eked with ends of wall. 

“ Then clap four slices of pilaster on’t, 

That laced with bits of rustic makes a front; 

Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar, 
Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door.” 

Some of our builders, I hope, will read these 
essays: their influence is of great moment. If 
well instructed, they will tell such as apply to 
them, that the word Architecture is not confined 
to the massy piles of public edifices, but that the 
very same principles which draught the Birming¬ 
ham Town Hall, or the Madelaine, can descend 
to plan the cottage, or the rustic bridge. These 
principles ought to be studied, not only in our 
colleges, but our lyceums, and other institutions 
for the instruction of working-men. Books of 
architectural plans should be compiled and abstract¬ 
ed from the more costly European publications. 
I am sure any one who is familiar with the Tailor's 
Magazine , will grant that there is no insuperable 
obstacle in the way of a builder’s periodical. And 
not architects alone, but all planners and pro¬ 
prietors should familiarize their eye to the con¬ 
templation of good models. 


THE WORKING-MAN’S DWELLING. 17 

The day it is to be hoped will come, when even 
the day-labourer will not think it necessary to be 
slovenly because he is poor, and when the most 
incessant drudges shall begin to see that there are 
some good things besides coin and bank-notes. 
The practical man whose views are enlarged wMl 
not fail to see that pleasures of imagination and 
taste have also their price. Decoration naturally 
comes after use; we build our houses before we 
deck them. But in the advancement of society, 
there is a stage at which men always set a value 
upon ornament; and though these circumstances 
may breed luxury, they have fruits which are 
desirable, such as increased contentment, placid 
joy, refined taste, cheerful reflection, and the love 
of home. 

Along the bank of a half-finished canal I saw, - 
the other day, a settlement, which, at a furlong’s 
distance, showed the origin of its tenants. Ex¬ 
temporaneous huts, barrel chimneys, floors with¬ 
out boards, windows without glass, and a dunghill 
at the entrance; these afforded the symptoms of a 
hovel. Here was no decoration; and I argue 
concerning this settlement, that there are no intel¬ 
lectual pleasures, no taste, no gentleness, no fire¬ 
side happiness. 

Let me change the scene. I knew a family of 
English people, no richer than those just noticed, 
who lived in a dwelling no larger than one of 
these—but how different! I see it yet in memory, 
2 * 


18 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


its whitened palings and beaten walk to the door, 
its tight sides and close roof, and especially its 
edge of summer flowers around a plot of the clean¬ 
est grass, and its roses and woodbine creeping 
over every window. They were poor, but they 
Were tidy. More than this ; they were fond of 
natural beauty, and fond of home, and therefore 
always aiming to make home lovely. 

Every reader has many times seen the same 
thing, and some have already learned the con¬ 
nexion between simple decoration and domestic 
virtue and peace. Why does an English cottage 
strike an American with surprise ? Why does he 
look, as at a strange thing, upon the French pea¬ 
santry taking their evening repast beneath their 
trees and vines ? Because we Americans are so 
particularly practical, and so possessed of the 
demon of trade, that nothing is valuable which 
cannot be sold. Value is becoming equivalent to 
vendibility. Valuable means saleable: worth 
means money. If a flower, or a hedge-row, or a 
cascade, or a bust, or a prospect, add to the price 
under the hammer, these things are valuable, and 
are straightway inserted in the lithographic view 
of the auctioneer. They are useful. Usefulness 
is that quality of things whereby they bring 
money. 


THE GARDEN AND GROUNDS. 


19 


III. 

THE GARDEN AND GROUNDS. 

“ Tall thriving trees confess the fruitful mould, 

The reddening apple ripens here to gold; 

Here the blue fig with luscious juice o’erflows, 

With deeper red the full pomegranate glows, &c. 

Homer’s Odyssey , book vii. 

It was certainly an exaggeration of Mrs. Trol¬ 
lope to say, that no one could ever hear two 
Americans talk five minutes without the word 
dollar. So Bonaparte exaggerated when he called 
the British “ a nation of shopkeepers.” Be it so. 
Caricatures often tell the truth. Even the hideous 
concave mirror, though it exaggerate ever so much, 
shows me some grand blemishes of my face. I 
have tried the experiment, in walking the crowded 
streets of our cities, to catch the predominant 
word of the passers-by. The catalogue is limited, 
and consists of such as these, “ Ten per cent.”— 
“ doing a good business”—“ money market”— 
“operations in property”—“exchange”—“ stock” 
— “ thousand dollars”—“ credit”—“ profits”— 
“ fortune,” &c. <fcc. 

If a man is so practical that he will not wash 
his face without “ value received,” I entertain no 


20 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


hopes of bringing him over. I have no purchase 
for my instrument. Now cleanliness is a sort of 
decoration; negative, perhaps, but the condition 
of all the rest. Neatness follows very closely: 
a cleanly child is usually neat. The cleanly 
housewife is sure to produce in her cottage a cer¬ 
tain trim and symmetrical arrangement which 
gratifies the eye. This is neatness budding into 
beauty. This transition ought to be seized upon 
wherever it appears. The pleasant little children 
who are yonder playing in the dust may be taught 
to keep themselves clean, and then to be neat. 
This is the path towards decoration. Taste needs 
development. These creatures may be bred to 
enjoy ornament: and thus we may get a race of 
people, even among the poor, who will begin to 
beautify the land. I live in the hope of seeing 
cottages along our multiplied and dirty railways, 
each adorned not only with a white surface and a 
close fence, but with roses, pinks, tulips, and all 
the pretty vegetable gifts of a loving Providence; 
gifts which our yeomanry have too much banished 
to green-houses and ballads. 

The ways of adorning a house by rural aids 
are various, and so well known as scarcely to need 
enumeration. They may be adapted to the low¬ 
liest habitation of civilized man, no less than to 
the villa or the chateau. Nothing but love for 
domestic beauty and ordinary tact are required to 
rear a thousand tasteful abodes along all our high- 


TIIE GARDEN AND GROUNDS. 21 

ways. And if but one provident householder will 
begin, we shall find that, humble as his habitation 
may be, he will soon be imitated by his neigh¬ 
bours. Fashion itself, the cause of so many fol¬ 
lies, may be brought in aid of virtuous enjoyment. 
Let some working-man make the trial, by holding 
up before his mind rural decoration as a distinct 
object. Let him secure to himself a house and 
garden where he is willing to spend his life. Let 
him, as his means allow, have it tight and finished, 
and by all means duly enclosed. This is the 
frame-work; after this ensue the details. Let 
him learn the economy of a little timely paint, 
and of a fence or hedge which will withstand the 
assaults of wind and beasts. From day to day, 
as he may be able to snatch a moment for breathing 
the fresh air, let him remove unsightly objects 
and make an entrance upon positive ornament. 
How easy it is to set out clumps or rows of trees, 
for shade and fruit, flowering shrubs or evergreen 
hedges ! How agreeable to the wife and the little 
ones, to be called out to join in dropping the cheap 
flower-seed or training the luxuriant vine ! 

To men whose life is spent in labour, the sub¬ 
ject is peculiarly interesting. The confinement 
of their daily toils creates the want of just such 
relaxation and refreshment as have been indicated. 
And let it be remembered that in our country even 
the poor man should cultivate his taste, because 
every poor man may look forward to the time 
when he shall be rich. Let him educate his 


22 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


faculties, that his ignorance may not some day 
disgrace his wealth. It is common to sneer at 
the mechanic, and to consider the youth who be¬ 
comes an apprentice as degraded. This is very 
short-sighted. I know no class of society whom 
success makes so truly independent, or who in 
the decline of life have so much leisure as mecha¬ 
nics. Compare them, in this respect, with pro¬ 
fessional men. The lawyer or the physician, 
however wealthy he may become, finds still in¬ 
creasing labours; the more riches, the more toil. 
Unless he relinquishes his business altogether, he 
must do the work himself. He cannot send his 
foreman to plead a cause, or to set a leg; nor can 
he, like the rich mechanic, sit in his parlour or 
his arbour, and know that all his great concerns 
are well conducted by proxy. Working-men 
should look to this, and from the time when they 
first enter a habitation of their own, should culti¬ 
vate the delights of domestic ornament. 

Among these ornaments, the highest rank is 
due to Gardening; including in that term the 
rearing of valuable trees. Children should be 
early taught that when they set out a fine tree, or 
insert a graft, they are doing a favour to posterity, 
and beginning that which shall continue to make 
others happy when they are in their graves. It 
has always been pleasant to me to see the house 
of the industrious citizen embowered in flower¬ 
ing vines and trees. And on Saturday evening, 
a season when so many forsake their work only 


THE GARDEN AND GROUNDS. 


23 


for the porter-house or the tavern, the man who 
possesses such a retreat will have a strong induce¬ 
ment to seek his delightful home, and meet his 
little household among the smiles of natural 
scenery. 

There are many very precious maxims of life 
which need to be pointed out; they are overlooked 
by the mass of people. Once indicated, they 
are believed and embraced. Among these is the 
following: Simple ornament hinders no good 
use. The watch runs as well in a comely case, 
as it would in a deal box. The draught is just 
as savoury out of a chased tankard. And every 
good of household life is unimpaired by nestling 
among green foliage, climbing honeysuckles, and 
parterres of flowers. I long to see this acted upon 
by our people. I long to see them snatching a 
few hours from the noisy throng of idlers, and 
the delirious mirth of the bar-room, and spending 
them on the little innocent decorations of humble 
but delightful home. 

The time required for beautifying a house and 
enclosure is really so little, that it scarcely admits 
of being brought into a calculation. A few minutes 
at daybreak, in the spring and autumn, will in the 
course of a year work wonders. A few snatches 
of time after labour is ended may be spared by the 
busiest man. If his work has lain within doors, 
or has been of the sedentary kind, a little exercise 
and air, enjoyed in pruning his hedge or trimming 
his vines, will be restorative to his health and 


24 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


spirits. This is better than mere repose. Nature 
abhors a vacuum of employment. Is not this posi¬ 
tive gain ? Health is “ the poor man’s riches 
that which conduces to it is worth more than 
money. Even those who are athletic, or who 
work at trades which give them constant motion, 
do not the less need something of this sort. It is 
not mere muscular exertion which preserves and 
restores health. There may be great bodily effort 
with no better result than fatigue. What every 
man requires when the day is done, is gentle 
recreation, something between work and play, 
which shall break the train of moody thought, 
repair the waste of nervous elasticity, and put the 
jaded mind in good humour with itself and 
others. 

When the artizan, after his evening repast, goes 
out to water his flowers, every thing he touches 
is his own; and nothing so much his own as the 
tree he planted or the shades he gathered. He is 
refreshed and tranquillized, and grows into the 
love of home. These pleasures are mightily in¬ 
creased, when he sees around him his little child¬ 
ren partaking in his toils and joys, and cheering 
one another with the merry laugh to work or 
sport; while the wife’s voice, heard within, as 
she sings contentedly over the cradle, adds a lovely 
music to the scene. This is a picture, of which 
the original may be found in many a poor bu> 
happy family ; would that it were so in all! Un- 


THE GARDEN AND GROUNDS. 


25 


der such shades as these, domestic quiet loves to 
dwell; and in such a spot religion finds its sanc¬ 
tuary. 

Contrast with this a case which we are often 
called to-witness. The mechanic or labourer has 
worked hard all day. At the close of his toils he 
turns his face homewards. But he has not pro¬ 
vided or cherished at his dwelling any strong 
attraction. No refinement of taste has ever soft¬ 
ened his spirit. It has been too much his practice 
to pass his leisure hours elsewhere. He feels the 
need of some relaxation. He is languid from 
fatigue, and sullen from the disgust of labour. In 
such a condition he is easily attracted to the bar¬ 
room. There, amidst the odours of liquor and 
tobacco, he forgets his previous listlessness and 
anxiety, to become the victim of an unnatural 
and dangerous excitement. The glass, the jest, 
and the song make the evening fly swiftly. Late 
at night he wends his way home, if not drunk, 
yet humbled, discontented, and peevish. No 
children greet him with their joyous laugh ; the ' 
neglected little creatures are asleep, and the sad 
wife is awake only through anxious expectation 
of her husband. Am I extravagant in tracing 
much of the misery in such a case to the want of 
taste for those little things which make one’s home 
desirable ? As a general observation, I have never 
seen idle or profligate sons issuing from within 
the cottage paling which has been adorned by 
3 


26 THE WORKING-MAN. 

their own infant hands. And, on the other hand, 
it would require a stoical love of virtue for its own 
sake, to make any youth love the foul, smoky, 
fenceless cabin of a thriftless father. Sweeten 
home, and you close nine out of ten doors to 
temptation. 

' . .*. w , - . 

... ■ = • - 






HUSBAND AND WIFE. 


2 7 


IV. 

HUSBAND AND WIFE. 

“ Sufficiency, content. 
Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books, 

Ease and alternate labour, useful life, 

Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven ! 

These are the matchless joys of virtuous love.” 

Thomson. 

It is well known to all readers of fiction, that 
the novel commonly ends, as soon as the happy 
pair are united at the altar; and it would be thought 
a singular romance in which the interest should 
be made to turn mainly upon the pleasures of 
married life. But whatever it may be in fiction, 
wedlock is the source of the richest happiness in 
real life. Its joys indeed are not of the sort which 
the novelist loves to dwell on; they are less like 
the lightning or the meteor than the sunset or the 
dawn. They are not the raptures of the lover, 
which are often founded in mere sense, and vanish 
when youth and beauty are gone; but the steady 
glow of a true love that outlasts every external 
charm, and holds on its constant light even amidst 
wrinkles and old age. 

Trite as the subject is, I must be allowed to 
spend a little time upon it, as it is nearly connected 


28 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


with the happiness of the working-man’s home. 
What is life, especially to the artisan, without 
home ? and what- is home, without gentle woman, 
the friend, the wife, the mother? The English 
nobleman, and those who ape his manners, may 
trample on these domestic pleasures ; but it is like 
treading down the lily of the valley, the cowslip, 
and the violet. Husband and wife, in high life, 
may affect great coldness, live' apart, maintain 
separate equipages, and flaunt at different water¬ 
ing-places ; they have debauched all taste for the 
joys of nature and of virtue: but husband and 
wife, in our happier sphere, are necessary to one 
another, and cannot be severed without loss and 
anguish. 

In our favoured land there can scarcely be said 
to be any check to marriage. Our young people 
marry early, and are free from that sullen, brood¬ 
ing prudence which is inculcated by painful 
necessity on the peasantry of the old country. 
Matrimony is therefore more an affair of the 
heart; and this, in spite of all sneers at love- 
marriages, I shall ever hold to be a great advan¬ 
tage. What was said on this subject by Franklin, 
seventy years ago, is still true, that early mar¬ 
riages stand the best chance of happiness. The 
temper and habits are plastic and easily run toge¬ 
ther ; the want of personal experience is supplied 
by that of elder friends who still survive. “ Late 
children,” says the Spanish proverb, “ are early 
orphans.” “ With us in America,” Dr. Franklin 


HUSBAND AND WIFE. 


20 


wrote in 1768, “ marriages are generally in the 
morning of life ; our children are therefore edu¬ 
cated and settled in the world by noon ; and thus, 
our business being done, we have an afternoon 
and evening of cheerful leisure to ourselves. By 
these early marriages we are blessed with more 
children; * * * * * * hence the swift progress of 
population among us, unparalleled in Europe.” 

Profane jesters and rakes have succeeded in 
getting afloat in society too many idle and wicked 
sayings about the state of matrimony. It is a truth 
at once of Scripture and observation, that “ he that 
findeth a wife, findeth a good thing, and obtaineth 
favour of the Lord.” I am so far from having 
any fears of infusing into my readers any unduly 
romantic notions in regard to marriage, that I am 
convinced the households of our working-men 
would be invested with a new charm if the mutual 
regards of husband and wife could be hallowed 
with more of these tender, respectful, and sacred 
sentiments. 

Poor Sedley ! what I have just written brings 
him to my mind. Though what the world would 
call but a common man, he had a heart worthy of 
a knight-errant. He is now gone ; but I am sure 
there is many a woman living who remembers the 
chaste but tender respect, almost passionate, if it 
had not been almost courtly, with which he re¬ 
garded the sex. And as for Isabel his wife, though 
at the time I mean she was neither beautiful nor 
young, she seemed in Sedley’s eyes to be the 
3* 


30 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


representative of all the virtues. I never heard 
from them a fondling expression, or observed the 
slightest indication of that conjugal mellowness 
which is a sort of perpetuated honey-moon. But 
then respect and love breathed from every action. 

Once I found him, when much enfeebled by 
disease, so much affected as to be in tears. “ I 
am an unlucky fellow,” said he, laying his hand 
on mine; “ I have hurt the feelings of my best 
friend—of Isabel. No,” said he, “ I recall the 
phrase—it is often but another name for anger— 
and anger never rested in her gentle bosom. 
Grief—grief—that is the word: I have grieved 
her. By my sullenness and petulance, the fruit 
of my diseases, but yet unpardonable, I have 
grieved her. And I must go,” he exclaimed, 
“ and ask her forgiveness, for in fifteen years she 
has never given me a look of unkindness.” It 
was with difficulty that I persuaded him to lay 
aside this purpose. He could scarcely believe 
that a needless explanation is always a source of 
real pain. When I afterwards found that Isabel 
gently smiled at his caprices, which she under¬ 
stood better than himself, I was only the more 
convinced that “ a virtuous woman is a crown to 
her husband, and that her price is above rubies.” 

Let the debauchee prate of the constraint of 
wedded love, and the zest he has in licentious 
pleasure ; let the monkish casuist declaim against 
wedlock as a lower condition in point of morals : 
I will still repeat the verses of the matchless bard 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


31 


—verses which I would that every young Ameri¬ 
can had engraven on his memory: 

“Far be it that I should write thee sin or blame, 

Or think thee unbefitting holiest place. 

Perpetual fountain of domestic sweets, 

Whose bed is undefiled and chaste pronounced, 

Present or past, as saints and patriarchs used. 

Here love his constant shafts employs, here lights 
His constant lamp, and waves his purple wings, 

Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile 
Of harlots, loveless, joyless, unendear’d, 

Casual fruition ; nor in court amours, 

Mix’d dance, or wanton mask, or midnight ball, 

Or serenate, which the starved lover sings 


To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain.” 







>■ c 


















32 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


y. 

THE WIFE AT HOME. 

“ For nothing lovelier can be found 
In woman, than to study household good, 

And good works in her husband to promote.” 

Mii/row. 

It has been one of my most serious apprehen¬ 
sions, that in the multitude of our societies and 
public combinations, men and women might chance 
to forget that they have any thing to do indivi¬ 
dually. We have societies to take care of our 
health, and societies to take care of our kitchens. 
Almsgiving, so far as practised at all, is practised 
chiefly by wholesale. Perhaps we may see the 
day when we shall dine together like the Spartans, 
and when all cookery and education shall be done 
upon the large scale. 

These thoughts were suggested to my mind 
with greater force than common, a few days since, 
upon my making a visit to the house of Mrs. 
Nelson, the wife of a reputable farmer, a few 
miles from our village. If I were to attempt a 
portrait of this excellent lady, I should fill a 
volume; I can only give an outline. Mrs. Nel¬ 
son is, in the American as well as the English 


THE WIFE AT HOME. 


33 


sense, a fine woman. Temperance, early rising, 
industry, and, above all, serene cheerfulness of 
soul, have left on her cheek at forty those roses 
which fashion and excitement often blast before 
fifteen. But what I took my pen to notice was, 
that truly feminine and Christian trait of my good 
friend—she is a “ keeper at home.”* Though I 
have been a church-going man many years, I do 
not remember to have heard any one of our clergy 
enlarge upon this Scripture phrase; and yet the 
older I grow, the more wisdom there seems to be 
in it. The best women in the world are those 
who stay at home ; such is the opinion of the best 
judges, to wit, their husbands. The worst women 
are those who have no home, or who love all 
other places better; such is the verdict of those 
who meet them abroad. A wife at the hearth is 
as indispensable as a steersman at the wheel. 
There is scarcely any degree of prudence or firm¬ 
ness which will enable a man to have a well- 
ordered family unless his partner have some of 
the same qualities. Even the success of out-door 
business is more dependent upon this than is com¬ 
monly supposed : agreeably to a vulgar proverb, 
“ He that would thrive, must ask his wife.” In 
a house where children or apprentices are to be 
cared for, this is plainly true. A little procrasti¬ 
nation, sloth, or want of thrift in the woman will 
suffice to make every thing go wrong. Who can 


* Titus ii. 5. 


34 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


count up the cases where poor fellows have been 
ruined by their wives ? 

This is a hard saying, but if it were softened it 
would be less true. Surely it is no disrespect to 
the better sex to point out those rare exceptions, 
which, like the dim tarnish on the face of the 
moon, make the other tracts look all the brighter. 
After you shall have exaggerated to the utmost 
the number and the faults of idle, gadding, gossip¬ 
ing women, w'e shall still have a million of Ame¬ 
rican housewives, brightening a million homes 
and hearts. Mrs. Nelson is one of them. Her 
husband is not the meekest man in the county, 
nor by nature the most hospitable, but she makes 
up for all, like the credit side of an account. In 
the exercise of the passive virtues, she finds her 
greatest happiness. She holds it to be one of the 
very first duties of life to render her home delight¬ 
ful, first to Jier husband, next to her children, and 
then to all who may enter her hospitable doors. 
Early in life, she observed that several of her 
husband’s intimate acquaintances were becoming 
irregular in their habits; she talked it over with 
Nelson. He, being a rough man, declared it to 
be his intention to break off all connexion with 
Lang and Shepherd on the spot. “ O, no, hus¬ 
band !” said she ; “ that would be cruel: remem¬ 
ber the proverb, 4 a soft word breaketh the bone.’ 
Let me alone to bring them to their bearings ; at 
any rate give me a month for an experiment.” 
“ You !” he exclaimed, in astonishment; “ Mary, 


THE WIFE AT HOME. 


35 


you amaze me ; surely you will not follow them 
to the bar-room, as Jemima Murphy does her 
goodman ?” “Perhaps not,” said his wife, 
laughing; “ but we women have some secrets 
left still. Wait but a month.” 

The month rolled round. It was with difficulty 
that Nelson kept himself from falling upon the 
two men violently, but he waited to see the issue, 
and even kept out of their way, that the incanta¬ 
tion might not be interrupted. At the close of 
three weeks, Lang and Shepherd were two of the 
most quiet, orderly, and domestic men in the 
neighbourhood. “ Why, Mary,” said Nelson, 
“ what have you been doing to them ?” “ I! 

husband ! I have not exchanged words with them 
for weeks.” “ Then you have had some witch¬ 
craft at work.” “ None in the world,” she re¬ 
plied ; “ the story is soon related. I had observed 
for a long time that their homes were growing 
dismal: and I often told Mrs. .Lang what I feared 
concerning her husband. Indeed, I had heard 
you tell of Lang’s repeating over his glass that 
abominable saying, ‘ the devil’s at home.’ After 
my talk with you I set to work, not on the hus¬ 
bands, but their wives. Simple creatures! they 
scarcely knew what I meant. They wished in¬ 
deed that the men would spend more time at 
home, and even wept about their late hours and 
beer-drinking. But they were not prepared for 
my telling them that they must redouble the attrac¬ 
tions of their own fireside—make the cheer better 


36 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


— the fire brighter — the children cleaner—the 
house tidier—the welcome heartier; call in a plea¬ 
sant neighbour to tea, or a friend’s daughter to 
sing an innocent song, and even invite to a com¬ 
fortable supper two or three of their husband’s 
cronies. Before long they began to have pleasant 
evenings; and by a choice of company, a little 
good fruit, lemonade, home-made cake, and music, 
fairly convinced the two men that they could go 
pleasantly to bed without ale, porter, or brandied 
wine. The thing has taken admirably, and you 
see the result.” 

Now though it is likely Nelson did not just 
then suspect it, this was the very course which 
had proved successful in saving himself from 
ruinous habits. And most earnestly is it to be 
wished that all our towns and villages were filled 
with such wives as honour and love the family 
institution ! Every one has made the observation 
that there are many more women who are religious, 
than men; but the final cause of this has not so often 
been remarked. Divine Providence, by this dis¬ 
criminating favour to the one sex, pours influence 
into the social fountain. As are the mothers of a 
nation, so will be the sons, and, in a measure, the 
husbands. But to exercise full influence, the wife 
must be a keeper at home. She will find enough 
to employ her longest days, in the endless circle 
of household cares. While she will welcome the 
evening visiter, and often enlarge her frugal board 
for the bevy of friends, or even join in the social 


THE WIFE AT HOME. 


37 


party or the cheerful sleigh-ride, these things will 
be the exceptions, not the rule. So living, she 
will give happiness to the increasing circle. “ Her 
children arise and call her blessed; her husband 
also and he praiseth her.” 


4 


38 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


VI. 

THE WORKING-MAN’S DAUGHTER. 

“ How bless’d the maid whose heart, yet free 
From love’s uneasy sovereignty, 

Beats with a fancy running high, 

Her simple cares to magnify : 

Whom labour, never urged to toil, 

Hath cherish’d on a healthful soil.” 

WOKDSWORTH. 

When I look around me among my fair coun¬ 
trywomen, and see them equal in grace and love¬ 
liness to any upon earth; and when I observe 
how many of the most beautiful are come out 
from the dwellings of industry, I am filled with a 
glow of satisfaction which I would not repress 
and cannot put into words. But personal charms 
are the least of the graces of American women. 
It is, I hope, no part of our national conceit to 
think that the world cannot show more virtuous 
women. Perhaps the poison of the town is, in 
some degree, creeping into the country; but still, 
in rural neighbourhoods, the virgin purity of the 
sex bears comparison with the choice of the 
whole earth. 

There are few things of which men are more 
proud than of their daughters. The young father 




THE WORKING-MAN’S DAUGHTER. 39 

follows the sportive girl with his eye, as he che¬ 
rishes an emotion of complacency not so tender 
but quite as active as the mother’s. The aged 
father leans on his daughter as the crutch of his 
declining years. An old proverb says that the 
son is son till he is married, but the daughter is 
daughter forever. This is something like the 
truth. Though the daughter leaves the parental 
hearth, she is still followed by kindly regards. 
The gray-haired father drops in every day to 
greet the beloved face; and when he pats the 
cheeks of the little grandchildren, it is chiefly 
because the bond which unites him to them passes 
through the heart of his darling Mary; she is his 
daughter still. 

You have, my reader, a daughter—your hope, 
your pride. It is a blessing for which you may 
well thank Heaven: it is a trust at which you 
may well tremble. Beware how you neglect or 
mismanage so delicate a plant. Slight storms will 
blast a texture so susceptible. While your eye 
is upon your cherished girl, and the gush of affec¬ 
tion is strongest and warmest, open your mind to 
the importance of being a wise father. What has 
this frail but inestimable creature to ask at your 
hands ? 

She should be guarded . It is superfluous to 
say that our daughters walk among dangers. Even 
at school, nay, in the bosom of our family, they 
require cautious attention. “A child left to him¬ 
self,” says Solomon, “bringeth his mother to 


40 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


shame it is doubly true of the daughter. This 
is not one of the things which may be abandoned 
to self-management. Principles must be implant¬ 
ed, and heavenly precepts inculcated. The rich 
soil, when left nntilled, brings forth a horrid crop 
of rank weeds. I would gladly avoid saying it, 
but even female companions may be snares, and 
it is not impossible for gay and fascinating girls 
to be bad associates. It has happened again and 
again that maidens have" fallen when they merely 
“went out to see the daughters of the land.” 
Far be it from me to commend the old Spanish 
plan of seclusion : I have no such wish. Let the 
gay creatures move freely in the circle of friends, 
but still let the parental eye and the parental hand 
be ever ready to descry and avert the danger. 
The great point is gained when the father is con¬ 
vinced that the daughter needs his care. He is 
less anxious, and she is safe. 

She should be educated . The age is favour¬ 
able to this. * In heathen countries women have 
always been uneducated drudges. Among the 
most refined of the ancients, an educated woman 
was a sort of black swan, an object of curiosity 
and amazement. Among our own Christian an¬ 
cestors, female education was made to consist 
almost entirely in housewifery, and a few offices 
of religion. But in this country, at present, the 
stream of opinion is wholly in favour of giving 
learning and accomplishment to the sex. As a 
general observation, it is true that daughters all 


THE WORKING-MAN’S DAUGHTER. 41 

over the country have a better training than that 
of their mothers. Perhaps there is some danger 
of going to the extreme of refinement, and under¬ 
taking to give grace, and polish, and embellish¬ 
ment beyond what the solid acquisition will bear. 

Give your daughter the best education you can 
afford: you can give her nothing better. And 
when I say the best education, I mean of course 
that which is most suited to her expectations in 
life, including in the term, not merely book-learn¬ 
ing, but the household arts and the culture of the 
heart. There is tendency enough towards mere 
accomplishments, such as music, drawing, fancy- 
work, and the like; so that I plead more earnestly 
for the solids. And with respect to the latter, it is 
certainly safer to err on the side of too much, than 
on that of too little. Any little excess of attain¬ 
ment will be easily forgotten and thrown off amidst 
the cares of a family. The wife and mother has 
far less time than the husband to make attainments 
in after life ; she must therefore get as much as is 
possible before marriage. In most of the schools 
with which I am acquainted, girls have too many 
branches offered to their attention. A girl’s edu¬ 
cation is usually considered as complete after a 
course of three or four years; yet in this brief 
period she is expected in some seminaries to 
acquire the same amount of learning which it 
takes boys three times as long to acquire; and 
this over ancj above a list of minor ornamental 
branches of which the value is commonly in the 
4 * 


42 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


inverse proportion of the cost. This has weighed 
heavily upon my mind for some years past; when 
I have seen the daughters of men who are frugal 
and practical in other matters, really cheated out 
of a good education by the quackery of a false 
system. The point of this rebuke is directed not 
so much against particular teachers, who will and 
must furnish what the public taste demands, as 
against those parents who are so foolish as to 
bring up their children on a diet of froth, flowers, 
and syllabub. No discreet parent surely will allow 
himself to look upon his daughter’s education as 
a mere bait for suitors: he who does so is deck¬ 
ing a victim for sacrifice. On the contrary, unless 
you can secure to your child a longer course of 
instruction than the average term, you will do well 
to limit her to a moderate number of branches, 
and these the most valuable, and to see that in 
these she is as thoroughly instructed as a boy 
would be in the same. Moreover, you will not 
allow yourself to be satisfied with the advertise¬ 
ments, circulars, or other professions of great 
schools, however fashionable,'as to the choice of 
studies for your daughter, but will, after the best 
advice, select such a course as will promise disci¬ 
pline to her mind, and usefulness throughout life. 

There is one more suggestion concerning this 
important subject, and then I leave your daughter 
to your own care: She should be well married. 
True enough ! you will exclaim ; but how is this 


THE WORKING-MAN’S DAUGHTER. 43 

to be accomplished ? I will tell you: not by 
manoeuvring, or match-making, or any mercenary 
or trade compact, such as, according to a hack¬ 
neyed pun, may make “ matrimony a matter of 
money;” not by any measure to procure this or 
that man as a son-in-law. Your cares are to have 
another direction. Make your daughter all that 
it is in your power to make her, by education in 
its widest sense, and be assured she will never 
lack suitors. The great difficulty will be to pre¬ 
vent her being snatched away from you by some 
unworthy man. How shall this be prevented ? 
Not, as I think, by laying a repressing hand of 
cold iron upon affections already formed. No! 
no ! It is almost always too late when matters 
have reached this point. But a wise line of con¬ 
duct will be preventive of a wrong alliance in two 
particulars. For, first, if you bring the girl up in 
right principles, with knowledge, modesty, and 
affectionate duty, she will be in little danger of 
suffering any passion to .gain strength against the 
wishes of a parent. And, again, if a suitable 
guard be placed over her associations, she will be 
seldom in those companies where such alliances 
are most apt to be formed, and will thus be kept 
out of harm’s way. 

O mothers, mothers ! how greatly are ye con¬ 
cerned in this matter! While you encourage 
these young creatures in superficial accomplish¬ 
ments, and bold display, you are often preparing 


44 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


for them a lifetime of chagrin and misery. On 
the other hand, where you train them at your 
side, by precept and example, in retiring, indus¬ 
trious, studious, virtuous habits, you are preparing 
them to be “ corner-stones, polished after the 
similitude of a palace.” 



f. 



* 








THE SCHOOLMASTER. 


45 


VII. 

' •• ! 

THE SCHOOLMASTER. 

“ Much zeal in virtue’s cause all teachers boast, 
Though motives of mere lucre sway the most.” 

Cowper. 

It is pleasing to observe, as education spreads 
its influence more and more widely, that the in- 
structers of our children are rising in public esti¬ 
mation. It has not been many years since the 
very name of schoolmaster was a temptation to a 
sneer. Perhaps the fault was sometimes in the 
pedagogues themselves: they were not always 
learned, they were not always discreet. It was 
not indeed more common then, than now, for 
young men raw from college to teach for a year 
or two, until they might become clergymen, law¬ 
yers, or doctors; but while they did so they were 
not held in great veneration; and the older sort, 
who made it a business for life, were often bache¬ 
lors, humorists, and pedants. In the very State 
in which I am writing, there is a township, in 
which a majority of the schoolmasters were drunk¬ 
ards ; and that since the Revolution. Poor fellows! 
I might wonder how they continued to buy their 
drink, out of the pittance which they received for 


46 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


teaching, if I did not reflect that a man may kill 
himself with whisky for two shillings. They 
used to go about from house to house, like country 
tailors; and were less regarded. In the hard 
winters, many of them travelled on foot more 
miles in a month than they received dollars in a 
year. The school-houses were wretched dens, 
with no earthly recommendation but their airiness 
in the summer; and in these boys and girls, as 
full of mischief and prank as buxom health could 
make them, would vex the red-wigged master till 
his carbuncled nose emulated the red cloaks behind 
the door. Then came the smothered laugh, the 
furious reconnoitre of the offending bench, the 
cuff, the slap, the rejoinder, the surrejoinder; 
the quip modest, the reply churlish, the reproof 
valiant, the countercheck quarrelsome; till down 
fell the birchen shower. A stranger might have 
taken the engagement for a fight, as the whole 
commonly issued in a mutual castigation, in which 
the master was reduced to a good humour, and 
making a virtue of necessity, passed it all off* as 
a joke. 

In those days, however, of Cocker and Dil- 
worth, there were some ripe scholars, even in the 
glens of the mountains; and if learning was hardly 
come by, it was prized the more. Old men are 
living, who remember to have heard Latin talked 
in the upper forms of log school-houses; nay, who 
have seen and heard the master, in a fine frenzy, 
spout Cicero, and even Demosthenes, in the ori- 


THE SCHOOLMASTER. 


47 


ginal. There were some who had emigrated from 
“ the old country,” and some were bred among 
ourselves, who taught for the love of it, and who 
would scarcely have been willing to exchange the 
ferula for the truncheon of a commander. 

Many young people are now-a-days receiving 
a finished education, whose fathers scarcely knew 
a letter in a book. A few months ago, in a some¬ 
what secluded place, almost five hundred miles 
from here, I found the state of affairs so changed 
from what it once was, that the daughters of me¬ 
chanics were learning French, Latin, and the 
guitar. Whether this is wise or not may be re¬ 
served for future discussion; but one thing is 
certain, working-men are setting a higher value 
than formerly on education. If we may judge 
of the demand for an article by the price, teaching 
is a better business than it was. People are be¬ 
ginning to find out, that the man who gives good 
learning to their sons and daughters is doing them 
a favour. The schoolmaster is lifting his head, 
and is no longer ashamed of the title. It is right 
that this feeling should prevail, especially in the 
case of those who make teaching a business for 
life. Such men, if faithful and competent, are 
second to none in the good they do. The per¬ 
manent teacher, especially when venerable for 
his years, ought to be honoured in every circle. 
While he looks benignantly round him on those 
whose fathers he has in former days led along 
the ways of knowledge, he should be made to 


48 


THE WORKING!-MAN. 


feel that his services are not undervalued. When 
this shall be more generally the case, there will 
be fewer instances of retreat from the vocation. 
The instructer of youth will be regarded as con¬ 
stituting one of the learned professions; and young 
men will look forward to this calling, just as they 
do to the pulpit or the bar. “ If it w T ere asked,” 
says a late English writer, “ what class of men 
would receive, in the present or next generation, 
the rewards to which their labours, when rightly 
understood and assiduously performed, justly 
entitle them, it might be answered, with every 
appearance of probability—those who improve 
the moral and intellectual characters of individuals, 
and fit them to perform the various duties of life 
with satisfaction to themselves and advantage to 
others.” 

A difficulty suggests itself in the case of many 
mechanics and other men of the industrious classes, 
which merits special attention. We have among 
us highly respectable persons of this description, 
who have never received a thorough education. 
Still they are improved by their own exertions, 
and by intercourse with society, and are conse¬ 
quently far above the contemptible-prejudice with 
which ignorant parents regard all science and lite¬ 
rature. So far are they from this, that they lament 
their own deficiencies, and hold nothing more 
resolutely before their minds than the purpose to 
have their children instructed. But in seeing this 
accomplished, there is this hinderance: they can- 


THE SCHOOLMASTER. 


49 


not themselves pretend to decide who is and who 
is not a fit teacher; and in this age, when recom¬ 
mendations for pills, or dictionaries, or professors, 
are as easily obtained as bank-accommodation, no 
parent can rely on mere general testimonials. 
Habits of calculation naturally lead a man in such 
a case to make the price a criterion : and here is 
a common snare. Wo to the boy or girl whose 
parent has been beguiled by a schoolmaster with 
no great merit but his cheapness. Cheapen your 
watch or your chaise, but not your child’s instruc¬ 
tion. I knew a teacher once—I know him still— 
whose like I would gladly see in every town and 
hamlet of my country. Though aiming to be no 
more than a common schoolmaster, he might have 
graced the chair of a university. His manners 
are formal, and his language precise, and his deci¬ 
sions positive : these things are wont so to be, in 
one that has ruled for fifty years. Yet he is bland, 
and ready to communicate. He will put on his 
huge round spectacles even now, to rule a girl’s 
copy-book. His gray hairs sometimes blow about 
in the wind, while he is fixing a dial in a pupil’s 
garden. He has been a great aid to surveyors and 
almanac-makers, and is suspected of helping the 
clergyman to scraps of Greek and Hebrew. For 
though he teaches English, he is not strange in 
the ancient lore; and I am not sure that among 
all my good old mates, there is a single one who 
could better give the meaning of a hard quotation, 
than Robert Apple tree. 


5 


50 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


VIII. 

THE SCHOOLMASTER. 

Continued. 

“ The village all declared how much he knew; 

’Twas certain he could write and cipher too; 

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 

And even the story ran that he could gauge: 

In arguing, too, the parson own’d his skill, 

For even though vanquish’d he could argue still.” 

Goldsmith. 

We are apt to flatter one another that the world 
is growing wiser and better every day; and if 
great public improvements are to be taken as a 
fair sign, we are doubtless a greater people than 
our forefathers. They, poor souls, had neither 
steamships nor railways; the division of labour, 
which with us leads to such perfection in all the 
arts, had with them gone but a few steps. Books 
were rare among them; exceedingly rare among 
the earlier American settlers ; so that the libraries 
of many able and learned men, before the Revo¬ 
lution, were smaller than collections which may 
now be found among mechanics. Schools are 
more numerous, and nearer together, and scarcely 
a day passes but we hear of discoveries in educa¬ 
tion, which are almost as numerous as patent 


THE SCHOOLMASTER. 


51 


medicines. Surely the age must be getting wiser. 
Laying together a number of signs, such as the 
magnetic pills, animal magnetism, phrenology, 
the prolongation of life by vegetable diet, the 
astonishing modes of teaching penmanship in six 
lessons, and French in twenty, and the ponderous 
volumes of speeches delivered at school conven¬ 
tions and the like, is it not fair to expect the day 
when the royal road to science, like the north-west 
passage, shall have been discovered, and when a 
complete organization of that thinking pulp which 
we call the brain, shall be produced by steam ? 

Such meditations as these are not uncommon, 
but they are often driven clean out of my mind 
when I hear uncle Benjamin discourse about the 
times when he was a boy. Perhaps it was be¬ 
cause he had just been insulted in the street, by a 
couple of scape-graces, who, with the insubordinate 
spirit which marks our day, had scoffed at his 
lameness, that the old man appeared somewhat 
ruffled during our last interview. He had seated 
himself by an old-fashioned Franklin stove, for 
he cannot endure coal, and with his feet upon the 
fender, was enjoying the soothing odours of his 
pipe. The very sight of him brought before my 
mind’s eye the period before the Revolution. 
Here was the remnant of a robust frame and a 
vigorous understanding. Here was one remaining 
link to bind us to the old colonial times. Like 
many of the aged, he loves to discourse; and who 
has a better right ? 


52 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


“Ah,” said he, archly shaking a shrivelled 
finger at his grandsons, “ if you had been schooled 
in my day, you would have had other jobs for your 
winter evenings than playing that idle game of 
backgammon which I see you at.” “ How so, 
grandfather?” said Joseph, as he emptied his box 
and cried “cinq-ace” —“I’ll tell you, boys. 
Learning was something to be scrambled for in 
those days. The schoolmaster was second only 
to the minister, and used to wear his hair in a 
bag. He went the rounds among the farmer’s 
houses, in a large circuit, and some of the boys 
used to trudge their four and five miles to school. 
As it was not every young collegian who could 
set up a school, the business of teaching was 
worth something. We did not, it is true, pay a 
great deal in hard money, but taking into the 
account firewood, clothing, board, and produce, 
we used to make the schoolmaster quite com¬ 
fortable.” 

“ I suppose, grandfather, they used to whip, in 
those days ?”—“ You may well say so, Joseph ; 
you may well say so. The teacher was not 
ashamed to be named Master , and we were not 
ashamed to call him so. Master he was, and it 
took a sturdy fellow to handle a set of resolute 
young cubs, who sometimes turned upon him and 
shut him out of his castle. Hard blows used to 
fall thick; and they made men of us. If you 
want to become a young Lord Betty, or, as the 
Indians say, «turn squaw,’ enter yourself at one 


THE SCHOOLMASTER. 


53 


of these schools where the discipline is so parental, 
that the lads are made to believe a buffet or a box 
on the ear would ruin them. No, no ! We had 
our full share of correction; and though we used 
to_vow that we would take ample reprisals when 
we should get big enough, yet we never fulfilled 
the obligation. But every thing is on a new plan. 
I do not see anybody that can write a fair, round, 
copy-hand, such as we used to practise, having 
our knuckles well rapped if there was a single 
pot-hook awry. The teachers can’t do it them¬ 
selves, and they therefore cry ‘ sour-grapes,’ and 
set copies in three-cornered letters like a girl’s 
verses in a Valentine. The good old ciphering- 
books have gone out: they used to teach us 
figures, penmanship, and book-keeping, all at once. 
Then you seem to me to have some new-fangled 
school-book every month, and a new teacher almost 
every quarter. The cry is for cheap education— 
low-priced teachers; and your children fare ac¬ 
cordingly. You have more wit than to do so with 
other things. You do not look out so carefully 
for the lowest-priced horse or bullock.” 

Thus the old man ran on. With due allow¬ 
ance for the predilections of age, there was enough 
of truth and reason in his complaints to make me 
pause and consider. The stream of knowledge is 
daily more diffused: I wish I were as sure that 
it is deeper. Often, in talking with old men, I 
am impressed with this truth, that while they 
know less about many things than we of the pre- 
5 * 


54 


THE WORKING—MAN. 


sent race, they know better what they had learned. 
If there was less compass in their knowledge, 
there was more weight. Confinement to a few 
books made them perfect in those few. You could 
not puzzle uncle Benjamin in the Spectator, or 
the Freeholder, or the poems of Pope; but he 
never heard of Shelley, or Bulwer, or Willis, and 
my friend Appletree tells me it is much the same 
in the learned languages. He contends, through 
thick and thin, that we have no scholars to match 
the old-school fellows of silver-buckles and hair- 
powder, and that since small-clothes went out, 
there has not been a teacher who could parse his 
boys in Latin. He even doubts whether our pro¬ 
fessors of language could all of them make a good 
off-hand Latin speech; and as to Latin verses, 
which used to be so common, they are as obsolete 
as horn-books and thumb-papers. He further 
avers, though I would not be held responsible for 
the assertion, that the men of ’76 wrote purer, 
stronger, racier English than the men of this day; 
and that John Hancock, John Adams, Josiah 
Quincy, and George Washington, handled an 
easier, simpler, and manlier style, than Mr. Wise, 
Mr. John Quincy Adams, or Mr. Van Buren. 
But this, I dare say, was told me in confidence. 


EARLY READING. 


. 55 


IX. 

THE LASTING IMPRESSION OF EARLY READING. 

“But she, who set on fire his infant heart, 

And all his dreams and all his wanderings shared, 
And bless’d, the Muse and her celestial art, 

Still claim th’ enthusiast’s fond and first regard.” 

Beattie.' 

In the family of a working-man, where books 
cannot in all cases be very numerous, it is par¬ 
ticularly desirable that those which fall in the way 
of the young people should be of the right sort; 
and this is to be managed not so much by rules 
and restrictions, as by a care in the filling of the 
shelves. If the latter have seductive books, they 
will be sought after by the children, even though 
you should open before their eyes the most sacred 
homilies, or preach yourself hoarse in decrying 
naughty novels and song-books. This becomes 
more important, when we call to mind that the 
whole course of a man’s reading is often deter¬ 
mined by the books which he happens to enjoy 
in his boyhood. Robinson Crusoe has made many 
a sailor; Spenser’s Faery Queen made Pope a 
versifier; Xenophon’s Memorabilia made Frank¬ 
lin a disputant; and if I might be allowed to play 


56 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


the egotist in a harmless way, I would add that 
the liking of which I am conscious for the old- 
fashioned English literature is owing to the con¬ 
tents of a single shelf in the house in which I 
spent my boyhood. That shelf contained the 
essays commonly known as the British Classics. 

I perfectly remember the eagerness with which I 
used to clamber up the edge of the book-cases, to 
reach these tempting works. At first my object 
was to look at the pictures, of which there were 
two or three in each of the thirty-nine volumes. 
But soon I was allured to do more; and while 
yet quite a little boy, was as familiar with the 
more light and humorous parts of Addison, Steele, 
Goldsmith, and Mackenzie, as I have since been 
with any other productions. And though books 
for children were fewer then than they are now, 

I am satisfied that the daily converse of a child 
with such works as the Spectator, the Guardian, 
and the Connoisseur, even if he finds many 
things above his apprehension, is more profit¬ 
able and far more delightful than the perpetual 
dawdling over penny-volumes, written on the plan 
of making every thing level to the meanest capa¬ 
city. These first tastes of good letters diffuse 
their savour through a lifetime. Hence it must 
be clear to every parent, that he cannot be too 
careful in the choice of books; meaning not merely 
such as are given to his children as their own, 
but such also as form a part of the family stock. 

When I try to gather up the broken recollec- 


EARLY READING. 


57 


tions of early days, and ask what pieces of reading 
have left the most abiding impressions upon my 
mind, I discern at once that it has been that class 
which met my attention casually: not my school¬ 
books, not the works spread before me by my 
sage advisers, but effusions, gay or grave, which I 
hastily devoured by forbidden snatches. At an 
early age I fell upon the Life of Benjamin Frank¬ 
lin, as written by himself: a book which I shall 
always cite as an illustration of one of my favour¬ 
ite maxims, that truth is more interesting than 
fiction. The essays appended to the volume en¬ 
gaged my attention; and I was not content to read 
merely what I could understand, but dived boldly 
into some of the profundities of his politics and 
his philosophy. The Way to Wealth, Poor 
Richard, and The Whistle, are perhaps as familiar 
to the minds of the American people, as any human 
productions: I may therefore cite them as remark¬ 
able instances of lasting impression. I wish my 
admiration of Benjamin Franklin were not min¬ 
gled with anxiety as to the probable influence 
which one or two of these pieces, and the general 
tone of his economical writings, have had upon 
the national way of thinking. The maxims of 
Poor Richard are undeniable; and if the great end 
of man were to make money, they might be 
adopted as a sort of pecuniary gospel. But I fear 
that the boy who is bred upon such diet as—“ If 
you would be wealthy, think of saving as well as 
gettingor “ Six pounds a year is but a groat a 


5S 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


day;” or “ He that murders a crown destroys all 
it might have producedor “ A penny saved is 
twopence clear”—or any the like adages, will be 
not merely rich, but miserly. I am so little of a 
utilitarian, that I do not believe wealth to be the 
chief good, or frugality the cardinal virtue; and 
most heartily do I regret that such an authority 
as Franklin should have erected for us such a 
tutelary saint as Poor Richard. 

Be this, however, as it may, my position holds 
true; the whole colour of our life, both mental 
and moral, is frequently taken from what we read 
during childhood; and I am here reminded that 
this very philosopher is an instance in point. A 
very little book, exceedingly prized in old-time 
families, seems to have had great effects on his 
mind. In a letter written from France, in 1784, 
Franklin thus addresses Dr. Mather of Boston: 
“ When I was a boy, I met with a book, entitled, 
Essays to do good , which I think was written 
by your father. It had been so little regarded by 
a former possessor, that several leaves of it were 
torn out; but the remainder gave me such a turn 
of thinking, as to have an influence on my con¬ 
duct through life ; for I have always set a greater 
value on the character of a doer of good, than 
on any other kind of reputation ; and if I have 
been, as you seem to think, a useful citizen, the 
public owes the advantage of it to that book.”* 
These are notable words. Let them have their 
* From the American Museum, vol. vii. p. 100 


EARLY READING. 


59 


lue weight with the young. They were uttered 
by Dr. Franklin when he was in his seventy- 
ninth year: they were therefore not the fruit of 
sudden excitement. Their import is, that if he 
had been useful, it was owing to a torn book read 
in his boyhood. I hope the republication of this 
remark will not only have the effect of leading 
every one who reads it to procure this work of 
the famous Cotton Mather, but will induce some 
publisher to give it to us in a shape more elegant 
and better suited to the reigning taste, than that 
in which it has hitherto appeared. “ Such writ¬ 
ings,” says Franklin, of a similar production, 
“ though they may be lightly passed over by 
many readers, yet if they make a deep impression 
on one active mind in a hundred, the effects may 
be considerable.” 

When the artisan, or the farmer, or the trades¬ 
man is making up a collection of books, he ought 
to bear in mind that a well-kept book will last a 
lifetime. Some of the soundest books I have 
were owned by my grandfather. It is great im¬ 
providence to fill our houses with trash. Ten 
dollars, wisely expended, will, at an auction or 
book-shop, furnish you with fine old copies, in 
sheep or even calf, of Milton, Young, Thomson, 
Pope, the Spectator, the Rambler, Boswell’s John¬ 
son, Plutarch’s Lives, Josephus, with quite a 
sprinkling of later and lighter productions. And 
this will be a source of endless entertainment 
during the winter evenings.* 

* See the American Mechanic, p. 267. 


no 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


X. 

READING FOR BEGINNERS. 

“ Only, good master, while we do admire 
Thy virtue, and thy moral discipline, 

Let’s be no Stoics, nor no stocks, I pray.” 

Taming of the Shrew. 

Rules are good things, but one may have too 
much of them; and overmuch legislation is a 
snare and a burden. Some of my friends, know¬ 
ing me to be a bookish man, acquainted with a 
number of the old English authors, have again 
and again begged me to lay down for them, in 
black and white, a course of reading, which they 
might use themselves, and give to their young 
folks. This I have always resisted, partly because 
I have a dread of running all minds through the 
same flatting-mill, and partly, perhaps, because 
whatever little attainments I have myself made, 
have come to me, not by regulations, but in spite 
of them. I am half disposed to think this is 
nature’s own way. Men and families that have 
been held down to as rigid a uniformity as a Bri¬ 
tish garrison, whose regimental order is absolute, 
even to gaiter, moustache, and pipe-clay, always 
have, in my eye, a cramp look. They have 


READING FOR BEGINNERS. 61 

grown like fruit trees nailed to a garden wall, or 
box-wood in the old-fashioned tin moulds. Even 
in the fine arts, the pupil may be kept too long in 
the dull formalities of the drawing-school. The 
port-crayon need not be always in hand. As I 
was lately in a very interesting conversation, in a 
railroad car, with an eminent artist of Philadelphia, 
he related to me a pointed saying of our great Gil¬ 
bert Stuart, dropped by the latter when he was 
painting in London; “If young men are ever to 
learn,” said he, “it must be spontaneously. You 
must teach them to draw, as young puppies are 
taught to swim; chuck them in, and let them take 
their chance.” It is somewhat so in letters; at 
least it has been so with the most successful. 
Pray, what list of authors had Franklin, Murray, 
or Gifford ? 

When I remember my boyhood, I am rapt into 
a little fairy-land. O how full of rules were my 
compulsory pursuits ! O how free as air my read¬ 
ing ! The dear old books in which I used to pore, 
without direction, nay, against direction—how do 
they rise before my memory, like ghosts of be¬ 
loved friends ! Their very looks are before me ; 
I see their very “form and pressure.” Nay, 
smile not, reader, the odours of ancient volumes, 
perused by me long, long ago, are in my mind’s 
nostril this blessed night. There is Sanford and 
Merton—the very first “big book” I can call to 
mind; it was given to'me by my father; I did 
not so much read it, as gloat over it. To this day 
6 


62 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


I cannot explain the charms of that volume; but 
who ever read it uncharmed ? “ Robinson Crusoe !” 
I need not tell an experience which is that of all 
the world. “ The Thousand and One Nights”— 
It was somewhat a stolen enjoyment; but not less 
precious for that; and it opened an orient world, 
into which, on the mere strength of boyish fancies 
recollected and embalmed, it would have taken 
little at certain times to transport me bodily, as 
those incomparable fictions did in spirit. “ The 
Pilgrim’s Progress”—There were two things 
about this immortal story which made it dearer 
to me than all the rest; first, it carried with it a 
pleasing yet fearful shuddering as before high re¬ 
ligious mystery; and, secondly, it was a prolonged 
enigma, and he is no child who loves not a riddle. 
In later days, the same work has commended 
itself to my riper judgment, by its solid sense, its 
holy unction, its lordly imaginings, its epic con¬ 
duct, and its “ English pure and undefiled”—my 
mother tongue—the dialect, not of the college or 
of books, but of the market, the shop, and the 
hall. I hope earnestly, that while they are ham¬ 
mering out for us a new language, to be called 
American-English, and new-vamping the ortho¬ 
graphy of all the old writers in order that the 
books printed on the two sides of the water may 
be as unlike as possible—I hope they will leave 
a little of the racy idiomatic speech of the old 
country still uncorrupt, in such books as the Pil¬ 
grim’s Progress. 


READING FOR BEGINNERS. 63 

Set a boy to read a large book through, for a 
task, and you kill the book’s influence on him. 
But spread works before him, and let a little child¬ 
ish caprice govern his choice, and he will learn 
rapidly. It is not instruction merely that the 
young scholar wants; here is a great mistake; 
no, it is excitement. Excitement is that which 
drives his soul on, as really as steam does the 
engine. But then you must keep him on the 
track. And the same thing holds in self-culture. 
Somebody has said that every well-educated man 
is self-educated; and he said not amiss. Even in 
universities the mind is its own great cultivator. 
Do for yourself, young reader, so far as you know 
how, what there is perhaps no kind friend or 
teacher to do for you. It may be, while you read 
this page, in your shop or garret, or by the dull 
light beside some greasy counter, that you would 
gladly have a lift above your present low pursuits, 
into the world of knowledge. O that I were near 
you, to give you such aid as I have; but in lieu 
of this take a friend’s advice. My good fellow, 
write down that wish. I say, write it down. 
Go now and take a fair piece of paper, record 
your determination to get knowledge. My word 
for it—all experience for it—you will not be dis¬ 
appointed. There are, probably, not many books 
at your command, but no matter. Many wealthy 
young men, amidst thousands of volumes, pine 
away in listless ignorance. Sometimes we read 
with a double zest such things as we have to 


64 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


enjoy by stealth—after hours of work, or before 
day. What is thus read sticks fast. 

The deep impressions made by one’s first read¬ 
ing are so delightful, that we are glad to renew 
them. It is like a first love. When the Bible 
opens before me at the story of Joseph, or the 
Prodigal Son, I am all at once arrested—my 
thoughts go back to childhood—a thousand pe¬ 
rusals since have not dispossessed the first ima¬ 
ginations. They throng before my mental vision 
all the images of that dreamy time—all the tender 
cares—all the little innocent misapprehensions. 
What an unbought pleasure is here! Give me 
therefore my small shelf of books, in order that 
each one may be the centre of such remembrances. 
Let others throng the circulating libraries, and 
take the mingled alcohol and opium of the leche¬ 
rous and envious Byron, the puling and blasphe¬ 
mous Shelley, the seducing Bulwer; give me my 
Bible, my Milton, my Cowper, my Bunyan, my 
shelf of histories, my shelf of biography, and my 
shelf of travels, and I will have more “ thick 
coming fancies” in an hour than they in a day. 

I wish you could be persuaded to let your 
young people run a little out of harness. A horse 
always in shafts learns to stumble. You would 
not send your boy or your girl into the orchard to 
eat apples and pears by a list of particulars ; no, 
give them the key, and let them pick and choose. 


READING FOR ENTERTAINMENT. 


65 


READING FOR ENTERTAINMENT. 

“ Our kind relief against a rainy day, 

We take our book, and laugh our spleen away.” 

Dryden. 

The man whose days are spent in labour does 
not need so great a proportion of light reading, as 
the professional man or the student. Nor need 
this paradox startle any one. As it is true that 
the lawyer or the bank-clerk does not need, when 
evening comes, to rest his limbs, for the very 
plain reason, that he has not been exerting them, 
and that they are not weary; so it is equally true, 
that the wheelwright or the turner does not need 
to relax his reasoning powers, because he has not 
been putting them to task. The jaded body of 
the workman claims its repose, the jaded mind 
of the scholar claims its repose; but the tired la¬ 
bourer may rest his limbs while he studies mathe¬ 
matics, just as the exhausted student may refresh 
his spirit while he saws wood. 

I have long thought that ignorance or oversight 
of this truth, has been a great stumblingblock in 
the way of the improvement of the industrious 
classes. The flood of cheap novels and other 
G* 


G6 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


literary syllabubs is so exuberant, that, like the 
Nile in an overflow, it comes up to every man’s 
door. Those who least need relaxation of mind, 
because they have been engaged in no mental 
effort, are the principal patrons of this sort of 
literature. I have no doubt that most of the 
romances of our circulating libraries are worn out 
in the hands of working-men and women. If 
their taste had not been perverted, they would be 
quite as much entertained with a book of science, 
or an instructive history, as by the frivolous story; 
but forgetting this, or having never known it, they 
go on year after year, until their minds lose all 
vigour, just as completely as their stomachs would 
have lost tone, if for a like period they had been 
fed upon nothing but pastries, ices, and con¬ 
fections. 

The demand for this merely entertaining lite¬ 
rature is evinced by the character of the large 
weekly newspapers, and low-priced magazines, 
which circulate most among operatives. I need 
not name these; our cities abound in them. The 
newspapers to which I allude are commonly 
issued on Saturday, and their immense sheet gives 
occupation to many a poor reader for the whole 
of Sunday. Now you will observe, that a large 
part of the outer form of these publications is fre¬ 
quently taken up with just that kind of reading 
which is fitted to make a sound mind sick, and a 
feeble mind crr.zy. Tales upon tales of love, of 
horror, of madness, and these often the effusions 


READING FOR ENTERTAINMENT. 67 

of the most unpractised and contemptible scrib¬ 
blers, who rejoice in this channel for venting their 
inanities, succeed one another week after week, 
and are the chief reading of persons whom I could 
name, for year after year. If a man is bent upon 
novel-reading, in the name of common reason, let 
him go to what is worth reading—let him sate his 
mind with Scott, and Edgeworth, and Ferriar, 
and Ward; but let him not expose so delicate a 
thing as an undisciplined mind to the everlasting 
wash and ooze of such slops as these. 

By such a course of reading the mind gets a 
surfeit: the appetite sickens, and so dies. Let 
this become general, let it become the taste of the 
country, and it will be here as it is in France. 
The palled interest must be awnkened by more 
pungent condiments; and as old snuff-takers some¬ 
times mingle cayenne in their pinch, the jaded 
novel readers will have recourse to the double- 
distilled horror and obscenity of the Parisian 
romance. Symptoms of this condition of things 
are already apparent, and it is this which makes 
me the more earnest in directing my young 
readers to a better and safer kind of entertain¬ 
ment. 

“ Habits of close attention, thinking heads, 

Become more rare as dissipation spreads, 

Till authors hear at length one general cry— 

Tickle and entertain us, or we die. 

The loud demand, from year to year the same, 
Beggars invention, and makes fancy lame; 


68 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


Till farce itself, most mournfully jejune, 

Calls for the kind assistance of a tune; 

And novels (witness every month’s review) 

Belie,their name, and offer nothing new.”* 

Some years ago, it was frequently necessary 
for me to make journeys of some hundreds of 
miles in length. In taverns, and especially »in 
steamboats, I found myself constantly in need of 
some reading which should be a relief from the 
prevalent listlessness. Like everybody else, I 
supplied myself with what is called light reading, 
namely, the latest tales, romances, annuals, maga¬ 
zines, and verses; and, like everybody else, I 
found myself perpetually laying down the volume 
in a paroxysm of insufferable ennui. Why thus ? 
I could not but ask. Such reading has often 
relieved me after a day of hard study. Upon 
consideration, I was led to believe, that a diet of 
this kind is no more fit for a mind in active health, 
than water-gruel for a man-of-war’s-man. If you 
set out with the purpose of being amused for seve¬ 
ral days together, the project will certainly fall 
through. When the edge is on the intellect un¬ 
abated, it cannot be safely used upon such small 
matters. I was induced therefore on one qcca- 
sion, as a desperate experiment, to take with me 
on a long journey a book on a philosophical sub¬ 
ject in which I was interested, and which, I was 
sure, would task my powers to the utmost; and 
whether I am credited or not, I must declare the 
* Cowper. 


READING FOR ENTERTAINMENT. 69 

truth, I never found such a resource against the 
listlessness and weariness of a voyage, as in that 
difficult volume. Long after my own discovery, 
I met with the advice of Johnson: “If you are 
to have but one book with you on a journey, let 
it be a book of science. When you have read 
through a book of entertainment, you know it, 
and it can do no more for you; but a book of 
science is inexhaustible.” The practical use I 
make of such truths is this: I would have all njen 
who spend their principal hours in labour, to seek 
their mental relaxation in books of a higher order 
than those which promise mere amusement. At 
any rate, begin with the more solid, and make the 
trifling ones a last resort. 

Not that I would by any means debar the young 
reader from works of gayety and humour; still 
less would I lock out pleasing narratives, whether 
histories or voyages and travels. These last afford 
perhaps the most healthful relaxation of which a 
wearied mind is capable. But let some useful 
knowledge always be the object of pursuit. Even 
if you seek the merest entertainment, you will find 
this the true policy. The nobler the game, the 
greater the enthusiasm of the hunter; although 
every shot be the same, yet the sportsman will 
not waste powder upon wrens. Make therefore 
a fair experiment of the quality and amount of 
pleasure which may be derived from such reading 
as the following: First, Important History; as 
that of Greece and Rome, of England and America. 


70 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


Secondly, Biography; beginning with old Plu¬ 
tarch, the favourite of every age, and including 
the memoirs of the greatest men of our own land. 
Thirdly, Voyages and Travels , which give the 
best knowledge of geography, in all its extent, 
and are especially useful in enlarging the views 
of those persons, who, from their calling in life, 
cannot see much of the world. Fourthly, Books 
about Natural Philosophy and Chemistry; par¬ 
ticularly those which suggest many easy experi¬ 
ments. Fifthly, Books of Natural History; 
some branch of which you may so far pursue as 
to make collections. Sixthly, Poetry; the 
choicest works of the great masters. And if in 
no one of these six chambers of knowledge you 
find entertainment, I must turn you over to the 
incurable ward of novel-reading spinsters and 
peevish newsmongers. 


IN SEARCH OF KNOWLEDGE. 


71 


XII. 

THE WORKING-MAN IN SEARCH OF KNOW¬ 
LEDGE. 

“ In dreams, in study, and in ardent thought, 

Thus was he rear’d; much wanting to assist 
The growth of intellect, yet gaining more, 

And every moral feeling of his soul 
Strengthen’d and braced, by breathing in content 
The keen, the wholesome air of poverty, 

And drinking from the well of homely life.” 

The Excursion. 

Although I have said so much in another 
place about the ways and means of gaining know¬ 
ledge amidst the greatest difficulties, I cannot 
refrain from touching once more upon this favour¬ 
ite topic.* For those who have at heart the 
mental improvement of working-men, ought con¬ 
stantly to keep before their minds the truth, that 
there is nothing in their situation which need 
debar them from the attainment of even eminence 
in literature and science. Most of our young 
men, however, sit down in a sort of stupor or 
despondency, as if they said to themselves,— 
“ Others may deal with books; but we, who must 

* See a great number of instances in the American Me¬ 
chanic, pp. 161—275. 


7 2 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


work for a living, have no time for such enter¬ 
tainments.” There are a great many in whom 
the desire of knowledge has never yet been 
awakened. There are the two Riddles, twin- 
brothers, working at the same trade; I see those 
young men almost daily, and perceive in their 
countenances and discourse every sign of intelli¬ 
gence ; yet I dare say they no more think of 
making any advances in learning, than of becom¬ 
ing governors of states. Yet half an hour a day, 
properly bestowed, would make them men of valu¬ 
able information in every common branch of science. 

If I should urge John Crispin to apply himself 
to books, he would perhaps drop his lapstone 
and hammer, and exclaim, “ What! a shoemaker 
get learning!” Yes; certainly. Why not? 
Joseph Pendrell, William Gifford, and Robert 
Bloomfield were all shoemakers, and all men of 
learning. Roger Sherman was a shoemaker, and 
he became first a congress-man and then a judge. 
He had no education but that of the common- 
school, and worked at his trade for some time 
after he was of age. He used to sit at his bench 
with a book open before him, giving to reading 
every moment that his eyes could be spared. In 
later life, men of the most finished education were 
accustomed to look up to him with reverence. 
Mr. Macon once said, “ Roger Sherman had more 
common sense than any man I ever knew.” Mr. 
Jefferson once exclaimed, as he pointed to him, 
“ That is Mr. Sherman, of Connecticut, who never 


IN SEARCH OP KNOWLEDGE. 73 

said a foolish thing in his life.” He was a true 
Christian, a defender of virtue, and a daily student 
of the Bible. 

In like manner, my friend Shem Blue, the car¬ 
penter, would stare if I should hint to him the 
possibility of mixing a little study with his work. 
But I could tell him of Samuel Lee, one of the 
greatest linguists now living, who once handled 
the plane and chisel. He began to learn the car¬ 
penter’s trade at the age of twelve, and was seven¬ 
teen before he ever thought of foreign tongues. 
He began with the Latin, in order to understand 
the quotations in English books. By dint of 
saving and pinching himself, he would buy volume 
after volume at book-stalls, and, reading at night, 
went on till he had gained some knowledge of 
Greek, Hebrew, Chaldee, and Syriac. His learn¬ 
ing brought him into notice; he became a school¬ 
master, and at length a clergyman and professor. 
Now I do not advise our young carpenters to study 
the dead languages, unless they feel an irresistible 
bent towards them; but I press on them this in¬ 
stance to show, that a little self-denial and perse¬ 
verance will enable them to lay in a great stock 
of useful knowledge, such as may fit them for the 
most intelligent society; and perhaps raise them 
to high office. A leading journal of New York 
informs us that but a few years ago Joseph Rit- 
ner, late governor of Pennsylvania, cracked his 
whip and whistled to his six horse team as briskly 
as any other wagoner who crossed the Alleghanies. 
7 


74 


THE WORKING-MAN, 


Thomas Ewing, a most distinguished senator, was 
once known chiefly as an athletic woodsman. 
But there is perhaps no instance of successful 
study, in the midst of labour, which is more en¬ 
couraging than that of the blacksmith whose his¬ 
tory has been given to the public through his own 
letter to Governor Everett of Massachusetts. This 
sketch should not be confined to the newspapers. 

“ I was the youngest,” says the writer, “ of 
many brethren, and my parents were poor. My 
means of education were limited to the advantages 
of a district school, and those again were circum¬ 
scribed by my father’s death, which deprived me, 
at the age of fifteen, of those scanty opportunities 
which I had previously enjoyed. A few months 
after his decease, I j>pprenticed myself to a black¬ 
smith in my native village. Thither I carried an 
indomitable taste for reading, which I had pre¬ 
viously acquired through the medium of the society 
library; all the historical works in which I had at 
that time perused. At the expiration of a little 
more than half my apprenticeship, I suddenly 
conceived the idea of studying Latin. Through 
the assistance of my elder brother, who had him¬ 
self obtained a collegiate education by his own 
exertions, I completed my Virgil during the even¬ 
ings of one winter. After some time devoted to 
Cicero and a few other Latin authors, I com¬ 
menced the Greek. At this time it was necessary 
that I should devote every hour of daylight and a 
part of the evening to the duties of my apprentice- 


IN SEARCH OF KNOWLEDGE. 75 

ship. Still I carried my Greek grammar in my 
hat, and often found a moment, when I was heat¬ 
ing some large iron, when I could place my book 
open before me against the chimney of my forge, 
and go through with tupto , tupteis , tuptei, unper¬ 
ceived by my fellow-apprentices, and, to my con¬ 
fusion of face, with a detrimental effect to the 
charge in my fire. At evening, I sat down un¬ 
assisted and alone to the Iliad of Homer, twenty 
books of which measured my progress in that 
language during the evenings of another winter. 
I next turned to the modern languages, and was 
much gratified to learn that my knowledge of the 
Latin furnished me with a key to the literature of 
most of the languages of Europe. 

“ This circumstance gave a new impulse to the 
desire of acquainting myself with the philosophy, 
derivation, and affinity of the different European 
tongues. I could not be reconciled to limit my¬ 
self in these investigations to a few hours after 
the arduous labours of the day. I therefore laid 
down my hammer and went to New Haven, where 
I recited to native teachers in French, Spanish, 
German, and Italian. I returned at the expiration 
of two years to the forge, bringing with me such 
books in those languages as I could procure. 
When I had read these books through, I com¬ 
menced the Hebrew with an awakened desire of 
examining another field; and by assiduous appli¬ 
cation I was enabled in a few weeks to read this 
language with such facility, that I allotted it to 
myself as a task, to read two chapters in the 


76 


THE WORKING-MAN, 


Hebrew Bible before breakfast each morning; this 
and an hour at noon being all the time that I could 
devote to myself during the day. After becoming 
somewhat familiar with this language, I looked 
around me for the means of initiating myself into 
the fields of oriental literature; and, to my deep 
regret and concern, I found my progress in this 
direction hedged up by the want of requisite 
books. I immediately began to devise means of 
obviating this obstacle ; and, after many plans, I 
concluded to seek a place as a sailor on board 
some ship bound to Europe, thinking in this way 
to have opportunities of collecting at different 
ports such works in the modern and oriental lan¬ 
guages as I found necessary for this object. I 
left the forge and my native place to carry this 
plan into execution. I travelled on foot to Boston, 
a distance of more than a hundred miles, to find 
some vessel bound to Europe. In this I was dis¬ 
appointed, and while revolving in my mind what 
steps to take, accidentally heard of the American 
Antiquarian Society in Worcester. I immediately 
bent my steps towards this place. I visited the 
hall of the American Antiquarian Society, and 
found here, to my infinite gratification, such a 
collection of ancient, modern, and oriental lan¬ 
guages as I never before conceived to be collected 
in one place; and, sir, you may imagine with 
what sentiments of gratitude I was affected, when, 
upon evincing a desire to examine some of these 
rich and rare works, I was kindly invited to an 
unlimited participation in all the benefits of this 


IN SEARCH OF KNOWLEDGE. 77 

noble institution. Availing myself of the kindness 
of the directors, I spent about three hours daily at 
the hall, which, with an hour at noon, and about 
three in the evening, make up the portion of the 
day which I appropriate to my studies, the rest 
being occupied in arduous manual labour. Through 
the facilities afforded by this institution, I have 
been able to add so much to my previous acquaint¬ 
ance with the ancient, modern, and oriental lan¬ 
guages, as to be able to read upwards of fifty of 
them with more or less facility.” 

This, it must be admitted, is an extreme case, 
and is to be regarded as a prodigy. We cannot 
expect to see many such blacksmiths, nor do we 
need them; but the instance proves, as Mr. Everett 
observed, when he introduced it to the friends of 
education in Bristol, that the mechanic, the en¬ 
gineer, the husbandman, the trader, have quite as 
much leisure as the average of men in the learned 
professions. 

Let me close this paper with a remark which 
may serve as an encouragement to many who late 
in life begin to regret their neglect of past oppor¬ 
tunities. There is such a thing as acquiring wis¬ 
dom even without many books, and without great 
learning. 

“ Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one. 

Have ofttimes no connexion. Knowledge dwells 
In heads replete with thoughts of other men; 
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.”* 


Cowper. 

7* 


78 


THE WORKING-MAN, 


XIII. 

STUDS' BY STEALTH. 

“ Man’s life, sir, being 
So short, and then the way that leads unto 
The knowledge of ourselves, so long and tedious, 
Each minute should be precious.” 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

The' busiest men have some moments which 
they do not spend upon their regular callings: 
these are the moments which I have so often urged 
that they should give to study. Strange as some 
may think it, these unemployed hours often hang 
heavily even upon those who have been tasked all 
day. This is the case with all artisans whose work 
has dead intermissions; with many who only 
labour by daylight, and with the whole race of 
city clerks. Where dissipation does not come in, 
the mind will corrode itself, and become worn by 
melancholy broodings. This might be happily 
prevented by a little regular study. 

As a remarkable instance of the happy use of 
time borrowed from sleep, I will give the follow¬ 
ing account which I have received from a clergy¬ 
man who was well acquainted with the- subject of 
the narrative. 

“ In the first settlement of New Virginia, as 
the great valley west of the Blue Ridge was then 


STUDY BY STEALTH. 


79 


called, one of the greatest inconveniences ex¬ 
perienced was the want of schools. In a certain 
neighbourhood there was a settler who had re¬ 
ceived an excellent English education, and had 
brought with him a collection of choice books. 
This farmer agreed, in the long nights of winter, 
to give gratuitous instruction to as many of the 
young men of the neighbourhood as would resort 
to him. The offer was embraced by many, and 
among these was a modest, retiring youth who 
was learning the carpenter’s trade. The instructor 
having observed that this youth, whom I will 
designate by his initials S. L., had a thirst for 
learning and was fond of reading, paid particular 
attention to him, and not only lent him good books, 
but gave him good advice as to the best method 
of redeeming time. S. L. profited by this advice, 
and being obliged to work hard all day, he adopted 
the practice of rising before day, and spending 
two hours in reading, before other people were 
out of bed. This practice grew into a settled 
habit, and was uniformly pursued through a long 
life, except when interrupted by bad health or 
some other unusual circumstance. By industry 
and economy the young man acquired not only 
competence but affluence. His house was dis¬ 
tinguished for hospitality and good order. But 
what surprised all strangers, S. L. had acquired a 
stock of useful knowledge on almost all practical 
subjects. There were few valuable books in 
English, then common, with the contents of which 


so 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


he was not well acquainted. Theology was his 
favourite pursuit, with all branches of which he 
had an intimate knowledge. But his reading was 
extended to all useful subjects. He could con¬ 
verse with the divine upon all the nice points of 
theology ; with the lawyer and politician upon 
the great principles of natural law'; and with the 
physician on the structure of the human frame, 
and the nature and cure of the diseases to which 
it is liable. While his mind was thus richly 
stored with useful knowledge, he never made any 
parade of his learning, nor had a semblance of 
pedantry; indeed, he did not assume any supe¬ 
riority on this account over his more ignorant 
neighbours. His judgment was as sound and 
discriminating as his knowledge was extensive; 
and his truth and integrity were never called in 
question. As a magistrate, as an elder, as an 
arbitrator, he was held in high esteem; and as 
the patron of literary institutions. 

“ In his latter years he took occasion to speak 
in the way of affectionate advice to a descendant 
of his early instructor, on which occasion he said, 
‘ I feel it to be my duty to use this freedom towards 
the grandson of one to whom I owe all the little 
knowledge that I possess. It was your grand¬ 
father’s counsel, and his lending me books that 
first put me in the way of reading and acquiring 
useful knowledge; and therefore I cannot but 
feel interested in the temporal and spiritual wel¬ 
fare of his offspring.’ ” 


STUDY BY STEALTH. 


81 


Dr. Johnson used to relate, that he was once 
applied to by a man who was clerk to a very emi¬ 
nent trader, and who was half-crazed with some 
scrupulosity of conscience. “ I asked him,” said 
Johnson, “when he left the counting-house of an 
evening ? ‘ At seven o’clock, sir.’ ‘ And when 

do you go to bed, sir ?’ ‘ At twelve o’clock.’ 

‘ Then,’ replied I; ‘ I have at least learned thus 
much by my new acquaintance—that five hours 
of the four-and-twenty unemployed are enough 
for a man to go mad in: so I would advise you,* 
sir, to study algebra, if you are not an adept 
already in it; your head would get less muddy.’ ”* 
In correspondence with this, the same great scholar 
used to advise young people never to be without 
a book in their pocket, to be read at times when 
they had nothing else to do. “ It has been by 
that means,” said he one day to a boy at Mr. 
Thrale’s, “ that all my knowledge has been gained, 
except what I have picked up by running about 
the world with my wits ready to observe, and my 
tongue ready to talk.” 

Learn to husband your odd moments. While 
a companion keeps you out of employment you 
may gain a new idea. I have been acquainted 
with a man who committed to memory much 
valuable matter while he was shaving; and have 
known many who were accustomed to read on 
horseback; one of these being the late learned 
and eloquent Dr. Speece of Virginia. Since the, 
* Croker’s Boswell; 1781. 


82 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


application of steam to spinning, those who attend 
the mules may read during the intervals. A mule 
spinner in England told Mr. TufFnell, that in this 
manner he had perused several volumes. While 
dinner waits, one may study a minute, or even 
write. “ I had heard,” says Madame de Genlis, 
“ that M. d’Aguesseau had written in a few years 
four volumes quarto, by employing the fifteen 
minutes a day which Madame d’Aguesseau occu¬ 
pied in arranging her dress before coming down 
to dinner. I profited bv the example. The hour 
of dinner at the Palais Royal was fixed at two, 
but the Duchesse de Chartres was never ready for 
a quarter of an hour later; and when I came down 
at the appointed time, I was always desired to 
wait fifteen or twenty minutes. I spent that time 
in writing in a distinct and small hand a selection 
of poetry from various authors.” Here is a les¬ 
son, the benefit of which need not be confined to 
lords and ladies. In shops, and factories, and 
sitting-rooms, and nurseries, the same thing may 
be attempted. Make the most of reading aloud. 
Where there is a room full of people, one who 
has leisure may thus instruct a dozen, or a score; 
provided the work is not noisy. In country 
places, or where operations are carried on at 
home, a little child may instruct the whole family. 
The wife and daughters may hear as well as sew. 
Indeed, it needs but little contrivance, in some 
large families, to have some instruction or enter¬ 
tainment going on all the while. 


STUDY BY STEALTH. 


83 


There are few men who do not undervalue 
what may be attained drop by drop. But rocks 
are worn away thus, and fortunes are made thus. 
Through the little slit in the counter, pence and 
sixpences fall into the till, which in the end make 
the tradesman’s fortune. Why should not know¬ 
ledge be gained in the same way ? That it is not, 
is generally because it is not sought; no plan is 
laid ; no effort begun. “ It is astonishing,” says 
Sir Walter Scott, “how far even half an hour a 
day, regularly bestowed on one object, will carry 
a man in making himself master of it. The habit 
of dawdling away time is easily acquired, and so 
is that of putting every moment either to use or 
amusement.” In order to gain the most, the book 
must be chosen, to prevent all vacillation ; and in 
the very spot, to prevent all delay. It is well if 
it be in the pocket, or on the bench, or ready 
opened at the place in the window-seat. O! who 
but those who have experienced it can tell the 
rapture with which knowledge is gathered in 
these hurried moments ! What is thus read can¬ 
not but stick fast. The man who studies thus 
keeps his mind always on the alert. While the 
wealthy scholar often lounges away whole after¬ 
noons on the sofa of his library, unable to fix 
upon a topic of study, the poor fellow who hangs 
over a book-stall, or snatches a moment from his 
work, is enjoying a paradise of intellectual satis¬ 
faction. These are the cheap pleasures which 
can be caught only under pressure : for there are 


84 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


joys peculiar to men in straits. I have cited 
Johnson: his greatest attainments were made 
during his greatest poverty. At one time, when 
he was called upon by a learned friend, he had but 
one chair in his apartment, and that stood on three 
legs: he probably enjoyed his books as much as 
when his library consisted of five thousand volumes. 
Every child knows the avidity with which he 
poaches among forbidden books. Little Walter 
Scott used to creep out of bed and read for several 
hours by fire-light: no man has done more to lay 
similar temptations in the way of others. In fine, 
where there is a will there will be a way; and 
there is nothing so much to be deplored as the 
stupid indifference with which many who most 
need the awakening influence of letters, will re¬ 
ceive all my suggestions. Yet, if one in five 
hundred be helped up a single round of the ladder, 
I shall be of good cheer still. 


THE ART OP DRAWING. 


85 


XIV. 

THE ART OP DRAWING VALUABLE TO 
MECHANICS. 

“ From hence the rudiments of art began; 

A coal, or chalk, first imitated man: 

Perhaps the shadow, taken on a wall, 

Gave outlines to the rude original.” 

Drydeit. 

Many persons look upon drawing as a mere 
accomplishment; something fitted for the misses 
of a boarding-school, or the parlour of a travelling 
dandy. This is a very partial and absurd view 
of the subject. However the art may be abused, 
as the sister art of writing also is, it is, in many 
respects, and to many persons, one of the useful 
rather than the fine arts. It has been properly 
said, by Mr. Rembrandt Peale, that writing is 
nothing else than drawing the forms of letters; 
and drawing is little more than writing the forms 
of objects. 

If proper methods were employed, the art might 
be very advantageously introduced into the primary 
instruction of every school. It has a manifest 
tendency to cultivate the faculty of accurate obser¬ 
vation, and there is no trade in which form is 
concerned, to which it may not contribute in a 
8 


86 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


high degree. The architect and the painter must 
of course be draftsmen; but we may add to these 
every trade which regards decoration. To have 
freedom and grace in sketching is of value to 
weavers, upholsterers, paper-hangers, coach-ma¬ 
kers and trimmers, calico-printers, silver-platers, 
turners, and many other classes of artisans which 
need not now be named. 

Almost a century ago, in 1741, the Bishop of 
St. Asaph published a sermon upon the then un¬ 
popular subject of general education, in which are 
found the following remarkable suggestions, which 
it seems to be reserved for our age to carry into 
execution. “ Several gentlemen of great know¬ 
ledge in business, true friends to these schools, 
and prudently desirous to establish a suitable plan 
of education in them, have yet been of opinion, 
that if the children were taught, as they might be 
at small expense, something of the art of draw¬ 
ing, it would prove beneficial in several respects. 
For this they urge the great perfection to which 
silk manufactures are now advanced in England, 
so as to equal if not exceed a rival nation in that 
commodity, except in the figure, and what is 
called the fancy of a pattern, which this instruc¬ 
tion might supply: that in France the very poorest 
of the children are all taught to draw; that the 
benefits of that branch of skill are very great, for 
it not only multiplies persons capable of drawing 
patterns, and thereby lessens the expense to the 
manufacturer, but likewise greatly assists in the 


THE ART OF DRAWING. 


87 


performance of the work itself, as a workman 
who can himself draw a pattern will finish with 
greater truth and greater despatch, any given pat¬ 
tern, whether drawn by his own or by another 
hand.” The same remarks, with little alteration, 
might be applied to the work of cabinet-makers, 
moulders, founders, and especially the makers 
and decorators of porcelain and other fine ware. 

In 1835, a report was printed by a Select Com¬ 
mittee of the House of Commons, on the state of 
arts as applied to manufactures ; in this a number 
of statements occur, which confirm the view I am 
now presenting. As it regards the silk-manufac¬ 
ture, Mr. Skene testified that the English work¬ 
men copied their patterns almost entirely from 
the French. As to the uses of design, Mr. Har¬ 
rington, an eminent silk-manufacturer, said to the 
committee :—“We would willingly, at the present 
time, engage a man at a handsome salary, con¬ 
versant with the principle of weaving, as a designer, 
and also to put the pattern upon paper.” The im¬ 
portance of cultivated taste in drawing, evdh with 
respect to iron-manufacture, will appear from the 
evidence of Mr. Smith, of Sheffield, a partner in 
a house which expends about six thousand dollars 
a year in models for stove grates and fenders; this 
gentleman declaring that he would not hesitate to 
spend two or three hundred pounds in a model 
for a grate, if the pattern were protected. Let 
the reader call to mind American stoves, in which 
a Gothic structure has been supported by four 


88 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


claw-feet! Messrs. Rundell and Bridge, the cele¬ 
brated jewellers, employed a person to design for 
them, to whom they paid more than two thousand 
dollars a year, and supplied him with a house to 
live in. Charles Toplis, Esq., a vice-president 
of the London Mechanics’ Institute, gave in evi¬ 
dence as his opinion that drawing was of high 
value to a large portion of inventive artisans. 
“All works of construction,” says he, “require 
to be preceded by a design on paper, or a propor¬ 
tionate delineation, which is often to be done by 
the workman himself. Workmen in these branches 
must therefore be necessarily trained to the accu¬ 
rate use of drawing-instruments, and their opera¬ 
tions are frequently much assisted when they can 
express their designs by sketches made by the 
unguided hand. The workmen whose province 
it is to shape and give form to materials, are greatly 
aided in their operations when they can delineate 
the contours of the forms they wish to impart, or 
can model them in a yielding matter; and their 
taste is necessarily improved by studying the 
selected forms set before them for imitation during 
the course of their instruction in drawing or mo¬ 
delling.” Again: “Inthe porcelain manufacture,” 
says Mr. Toplis, “ it is requisite that a painter 
there should be able to paint landscapes and other 
natural objects, perhaps to compose pictures ; but 
at all events he should be able to copy a landscape 
and other representation accurately.” 

The interior decoration of houses, whether by 


THE ART OF DRAWING. 89 

means of the builder and joiner, or the painter, 
paper-hanger, and upholsterer, presents a wide 
field for the display of taste and genius in the art 
of design. In the examination before the com¬ 
mittee of the House of Commons, Mr. Cockerell, 
the distinguished architect, explained the opinions 
of the ancient Greeks on this subject. “We 
know,” said he, “ that a stranger who established 
a new branch of manufacture in Athens obtained 
the rights of a citizen. Athens and AEgina were 
the greatest manufactories of Greece in all works 
connected with fine arts. The artists of iEgina 
had more commissions in all parts of Greece than 
any other nation. The manufacture of bronzes, 
especially candelabra, is celebrated by Pliny.” 
Mr. C. H. Smith, a sculptor of architectural orna¬ 
ments, stated to the committee, that he always 
found those workmen who could draw, if ever so 
little, were more useful to him than those who 
■were totally unable to use a pencil. “ I recently,” 
said he, “ sent my foreman into Yorkshire with 
work; on his arrival, he found difficulties arose 
which he had not (nor had I) anticipated; but by 
letter to me, illustrated by his sketches, he ex¬ 
plained all that I could wish for.” There are 
many cases in which an exact draft w r ill enable 
an architect or workman to ascertain, without cal¬ 
culation, the extent and direction of lines which, 
but for this, would demand the most abstruse 
investigations of mathematics. I have also been 
informed by a gentleman much conversant with 
8 * 


90 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


such matters, that in cases where there is doubt 
as to the strength of materials or other qualities 
of large engines, manufacturers find great advan¬ 
tage in making a draught of the size of nature, 
from the inspection of which they can form con¬ 
jectures approaching to absolute accuracy. It is 
believed that our great Fulton, in his long train 
of experiments, received incalculable aid from his 
expertness in the art of design; for he was not 
merely a draughtsman, but a master of painting 
and perspective. 

It is stated by Mr. Guillotte, a maker of the 
Jacquard looms, that art is much cheaper in France 
than in England; of course far cheaper than in 
America. A French capitalist employs three or 
four artists, where in England one artist would 
supply eight or ten manufacturers. Thus, in 
England, the designer of the pattern and he who 
transfers it to the manufacture are distinct persons; 
in France, the workman is himself the artist. 
“The French,” says Mr. Cockerell, “have long 
been celebrated for their attention to design in 
manufactures. Their zeal in this pursuit is no¬ 
where more manifest than in their recent prosecu¬ 
tion of the shawl trade-in the introduction both 
of the material and pattern of the Cachemire shawl 
by M. Fernaux, and in the later investigations of 
M. Couder. M. Couder has established a school 
for shawl designs at Paris.” 

In Prussia, the national system includes instruc¬ 
tion in the principles of art. There are four 


THE ART OP DRAWING. 91 

schools of design, at Breslau, Kcmigsberg, Dant- 
zic, and Cologne. Professor Beuth, the director 
of the Trade Institution at Berlin, several years 
ago published a work at the expense of the govern¬ 
ment, with copperplate engravings of models from 
the ancients and the middle ages, for the use of 
the pupils. “ It is stated,” says the committee 
above named, “ that the influence of Prof. Beuth’s 
publication is already perceptible in the shops and 
dwelling-houses at Berlin.” Drawing is taught in 
every school in Bavaria. At Bruges, gratuitous 
instruction in drawing is given to six or seven 
hundred young men, and prizes are awarded 
annually; something of the same kind is observed 
at Antwerp. Besides this encouragement, it may 
be mentioned that in England cotton-prints are 
protected for three months. In France, when a 
boy draws well, and shows genius, he is in great 
demand among the leading houses, and is often 
fortunate enough to be taken as a partner. 

Many facts might be stated, which would show 
that far more attention is paid to this useful art in 
France and Switzerland than among ourselves. 
Among these a striking one is extracted from M. 
Simond’s Switzerland. “ M. de Candolle, Pro¬ 
fessor of Botany at Geneva, but whose reputation 
is European, made use, in a course of lectures, of 
a very valuable collection of drawings of American 
plants, intrusted to him by a celebrated Spanish 
botanist, who having occasion for this collection 
sooner than was expected, sent for it back again. 


92 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


M. de Candolle, having communicated the circum¬ 
stance to his audience, with the expression of his 
regrets, some ladies who attended the lectures 
offered to copy, with the aid of some of their 
friends, the whole collection in a week; and the 
task was actually performed. The drawings, 
eight hundred and sixty in number, and filling 
thirteen folio volumes, were executed by one hun¬ 
dred and fourteen female artists ; one of the ladies 
indeed did forty of them. In most cases, the 
principal parts only of each plant are coloured, 
the rest only traced with accuracy: the execution 
in general very good, and in some instances quite 
masterly. There is not, perhaps, another town 
of twenty-three thousand souls, where such a 
number of female artists, the greater part of course 
amateurs, could be found.” The instance is in 
point to show how easily and how widely a degree 
of skill in this art may be diffused. That which 
is learned by so many may be easily learned. 

I hope some readers of these hints will be led 
forthwith to furnish themselves with drawing ma¬ 
terials. The extensive class of house-painters 
contains many who might rise to great eminence. 
Let me address them in the language of one of 
their own craft, Mr. D. R. Hay of Edinburgh, 
lie was asked by the committee, “ What do you 
consider the best line of study for persons intended 
for a profession like your own, or best adapted to 
improve the taste of the working-class generally?” 
He replied; “ It is in the first place to initiate 


TIIE ART OF DRAWING. 93 

them in the drawing of large symmetrical figures 
by the hand.” Symmetrical figures are such as 
squares, ovals, and circles. They should then 
practise undulations and volutes. Their attention 
should then be directed to the vegetable kingdom, 
and they should begin their practice by studying 
from large well-developed leaves. All the common 
woods, that grow in such profusion by our hedge¬ 
rows and road-sides, as also in the wildest and 
most sterile parts of the country, are worthy of 
the study and attention of those who wish to im¬ 
prove their taste in regard to what is really elegant 
or beautiful in form. Both grace and elegance of 
form are to be found in the common dock, the 
thistle, the fern, or even in a stalk of corn or 
barley. The study of such objects is within the 
reach of all classes; and those who thus form 
their taste, when they come to study the orna¬ 
mental remains of Greece and Rome, will find 
themselves familiar with the source from which 
such designs are derived. 


94 


THE WORKING-MAN. 




XV. 

THE CULTIVATION OF MEMORY. 

“ Wealth, gathered long and slowly; thoughts divine 
Heap that full treasure-house; and thou hast made 
The gems of many a spirit’s ocean thine; 

—Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear 
A pyramid so fair V* 

Hemans. 

This paper may catch the eye of some young 
man whose earnest desire it is to improve his 
mind, and who is carrying on, to the best of his 
ability, the work of self-education. Such a one, 
I take for granted, will not despise any suggestions 
bearing on his main pursuit, from an unknown 
adviser who has long been making an endeavour 
of the very same kind. My remarks are intended 
to bear upon a single faculty; that is to say, on 
the memory. 

Words would be wasted if I were to set about 
the task of showing the importance of the human 
memory. But while all acknowledge this, I do 
not believe there is one of our intellectual powers 
which is more neglected and even abused, and 
this even in our courses of popular education; 
and, if I err not, it is a fault which becomes every 
day more common. The error of former ages 


THE CULTIVATION OF MEMORY. 95 


was one directly opposite ; and as extremes often 
concur, it still shows itself in some particular 
branches of study; but the popular method leaves 
memory very much in the background. 

There is nothing in which there is more quackery 
than in our public schools; and this is no longer 
wonderful, when we consider in how many ca?es 
the instruction of youth is the dernier resort of 
those who can make their bread in no other way. 
An active competition springs up between rival 
teachers, and every means is used to give eclat 
and notoriety. It is the vanity of our age to be 
philosophic; the phrase is applied to every thing. 
We are all philosophers. We all babble concern¬ 
ing Bacon, and the Inductive Philosophy. Thou-* 
sands who have never got the first notion of what 
an induction is, descant upon this or that school 
or school-book as being on the principles of the 
inductive system. Our babes learn the A B C on 
the principles of the immortal Bacon. 

All this would be very innocent, if it were not 
made a stalking-horse for the introduction of 
noxious errors in education; and you had better 
filch a purse from me, than set me awry in bring¬ 
ing up my children. It is a part of this rigmarole 
of smattering teachers, to declare that all the old 
ways of teaching were slavish and useless. I 
agree that, in some respects, some of them were 
so. As a general declaration, however, it is far 
from being true. Our new instructers teach phi¬ 
losophically. They educe the mind. They are 


96 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


resolved to teach nothing but what the child can 
understand as it goes along. Therefore all the 
old rules and antiquated catechisms are thrust 
aside; they are a mere load of undigested stuff 
upon the mind. The little infant prattlers are 
forsooth to analyze every thing. They chop logic 
with you. Every thing is made gaudy and at¬ 
tractive ; all rules become illustrations; and all 
journeying to science is on the royal road. 

Of other evils consequent upon this method it 
is not within my scope to speak, but I adduce its 
bad effects in the affair above mentioned. Accord¬ 
ing to this plan the memory is an inferior power, 
to be used as little as possible; and as a matter 
of fact it is immeasurably less tasked in all our 
public schools, than it was thirty years ago. 
Everywhere, among young men, I hear the most 
honest complaints about defect of memory; and 
if things go on as they have begun, we shall do 
all within our power to reduce it to imbecility. I 
appeal to the experience and observation of parents: 
let us come to plain fact. Do your children com¬ 
mit to memory as much as you used to do ? I 
ask not whether it is for better or for worse, but 
do they bring home as many evening-tasks as you 
once did ? Do the boys make the house resound 
with passages out of Milton and Dryden, and with 
“capping verses”? Do the girls carry in their 
memory, as you used to do, scores of fine extracts 
from Pope and Thomson ? Your reply will attest 
the truth of my remark, that this faculty is neglected 


THE CULTIVATION OF MEMORY. 97 

in oar schools: we may have some indemnity, 
but unquestionably the memory is not improved. 

This is a clear going backwards. Nor is it 
single; it is part and parcel of a system. The 
plan of the age comprises, the spirit of the age 
almost insures, this very thing. Look about 
among your friends ; compare the young with the 
old. I venture to anticipate your conclusion; you 
find the memory of the latter more rich in special 
deposites of knowledge than the former; more 
fine old ingots of fact and poetry laid up in trea¬ 
sure. This is one of the evils attendant on a great 
blessing: it is the tax we pay for the multiplicity 
of our books. Where books are many, we can 
only touch and go, as travellers drink of springs 
by the way; where they are few, we resort to 
them again and again, as men drink out of their 
own wells. The poor man with few books is 
observed, even in our day, to peruse and reperuse 
until he has mastered their whole contents. Be¬ 
fore the invention of printing this was often the 
case; as it now is in those Mohammedan coun¬ 
tries where all books are in manuscript. The 
poems of Homer were repeated for generations 
by strolling rhapsodists, or minstrels, before they 
were committed to writing; and long after they 
were transcribed, they were in whole or in large 
part treasured in the minds of the people. It was 
said in my hearing by Dr. Wolff, the celebrated 
missionary, that a European or American would 
be astonished at the number of persons in Persia 
9 


93 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


who know by rote all the productions of their 
principal poets. 

Among the Mohammedans it is a common 
achievement to commit the Koran to memory. 
The following Egyptian anecdote is related in 
Mr. Lane’s “ Manners and Customs of the Mo¬ 
dern Egyptians— 

“A man was employed in Cairo to be a school¬ 
master. He could neither read nor write, but he 
could recite the Koran from beginning to end. 
His plan was, to hear the boys repeat their les¬ 
sons, which are always in this book. As to the 
writing, he employed the head-boy in the school 
to attend to this, pretending that his eyes were 
weak. A few days after he had taken upon him¬ 
self this office, a poor woman brought a letter for 
him to read to her from her son, who had gone 
on pilgrimage. He pretended to read it, but said 
nothing; and the woman, inferring from his silence 
that the letter contained bad news, said to him, 
4 Shall I shriek ?” He answered, ‘ Yes.’ ‘ Shall 
I rend my clothes V He answered, ‘Yes.’ So 
the poor woman returned to her house, and with 
her assembled friends performed the lamentation 
and other ceremonies usual on the occasion of 
death. Not many days after this her son arrived, 
and she asked him what he could mean by giving 
her such an alarm. The explanation was given, 
the letter was produced, and the teacher was called 
to account for his imposture. His ready apology 
was : 4 God alone knows futurity ! How could I 


THE CULTIVATION OF MEMORY. 99 

know that your son would arrive in safety? It 
was better that you should think him dead, than 
expect to see him and be disappointed.’ ” 

As to the Jews, it is not only a common thing 
for them to have the whole Hebrew Bible in their 
memory, but also large portions of the Talmud, 
which is a collection of comments five or six 
times as extensive. One of their own chroniclers 
relates a fact which illustrates this observation. 
In the seventh century the copies of the Talmud 
became very scaree in Persia, in consequence of 
one of those hideous persecutions to which this 
unconquerable race has been so often subjected. 
A celebrated Rabbi, fearing lest the precious work 
should be irreparably lost, fell upon the happy 
expedient of consigning it, in portions, to the 
memory of his several scholars, giving to each a 
single treatise. At the appointed time the scholars 
were assembled, and the immense work was re¬ 
hearsed without the error of a jot or tittle. Strange 
as this legend may seem, I think it right to say, 
that it is cited with credence by an eminent Ger¬ 
man author of our day, who adds this declaration: 
“ Even now, I would wager, that the same experi¬ 
ment would have a like result. The most ortho¬ 
dox Jews, those most attached to the Talmud, 
among all who live in Europe, are to be found in 
Lithuania and Poland. Now let the prince who 
reigns over them send forth an edict through his 
extensive dominions, that at the end of three 
months every Talmud shall be delivered up and 


100 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


destroyed, except a single one with which to make 
the trial. Within four months the Jews will pro¬ 
duce twelve rabbins who shall repeat the contents 
of the work word for word.”* Indeed, a Jew 
has exhibited himself in London within the last 
few months, who publicly submitted to a trial in 
proof of his having every word of this immense 
mass in his memory. 

It would be tedious to recite the instances of 
amazing memory given in ancient books. The- 
mistocles learned to speak Persian in a year. 
Mithridates knew two-and-twenty languages. 
Crassus professed to be familiar with five dialects 
of the Greek tongue. Cyrus remembered the 
names of all his soldiers.! Theodectes could 
repeat any number of verses which were read to 
him. Erasmus knew all Terence and Horace by 
heart; and Beza could repeat the Psalms in He¬ 
brew, and St. Paul’s epistles in Greek. The 
great Pascal, in modern times, had a memory from 
which nothing seemed to escape. In our own 
country Dr. Nesbit, once president of Dickinson 
College, is reported to have known every line in 
Virgil. But I am becoming prolix, and must 
therefore take a fresh pen for the more practical 
part of my subject. 

* Professor Grbrer, of Stuttgart, in his History of Primi¬ 
tive Christianity. 

f Quintilian, Inst. Orat. lib. xi. 2. 


THE CULTIVATION OP MEMORY. 101 


XVI. 

THE CULTIVATION OP MEMORY. 

t 

Continued. 

“ The busy power 
Of memory her ideal train preserves 
Entire ; or when they would elude her watch, 
Reclaims their fleeting footsteps from the waste 
Of dark oblivion.” Akexside. 

Aristotle held, as I am told by the school¬ 
master, that all remembrance is owing to a physical 
impression made on the brain. Thus he is enabled 
to account for the quickness and shortness of 
memory in children; because the brain of the 
little one is soft, and therefore easily takes a mark, 
and as easily loses it. On the other hand, the 
brain of old men is tough and rigid, so that it nei¬ 
ther takes nor loses an impression with facility. 
This theory is exploded, but it still serves to illus¬ 
trate the principle that it is in early life that the 
memory must be ehiefly disciplined. This is a 
most important truth in education, but very much 
overlooked in the pretended philosophy of educa¬ 
tion. It is important as directing us to the proper 
studies for our children. There are some things 
which we must teach them now, because they 
9 * 


102 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


cannot learn them so well hereafter: there are 
other things which we must teach them hereafter, 
because they cannot learn them any better, if even 
so well, now. The things which children should 
learn now, are all those which exercise memory 
rather than reason: such is whatever concerns 
language, and whatever it is important to remem¬ 
ber in certain terms. All rules and forms which 
will be perpetually coming into play in subsequent 
studies or in active life, should be deeply engraven 
upon the memory. Rules of grammar, religious 
catechisms, and the words of Holy Scripture are 
especially of this sort. And that parent is trifling 
with the future happiness and usefulness of his 
child, who allows himself to be decoyed into the 
absurd rule of inculcating nothing upon the memory 
until it can be comprehended by the understanding. 

But I must leave the children, and return to the 
young men. What are they to do ? And espe¬ 
cially what are they to do, if they have heretofore 
been neglected ? Is there any chance of redeem¬ 
ing lost opportunities? or rather, is there not 
occasion for despair ? One of my maxims about 
every thing is, Never despair: another maxim is, 
Never stand still ; that is, never, in youth or 
age, allow yourself to think you have reached the 
ne plus ultra. Resolve to reform every error, to 
cure every disorder, and to supply every defect, 
as long as you live. Instead therefore of indulging 
in pusillanimous complaints and indolent wishes 
about the defects of your memory, set about sup- 


THE CULTIVATION OP MEMORY. 103 

plying them. The very thing I am writing for 
is to induce you to undertake this very work. 
Your whole success depends upon two quite 
simple principles: 

First. The memory must be exercised. The 
law of all our powers, of mind and body, is the 
same. They grow in proportion to their health¬ 
ful exercise. It is so with muscles. Compare 
the arm of the tailor with that of the blacksmith 
or the woodman. Compare the voice of the 
chimney-sweep with that of the silent house- 
servant. Compare your own hand with that of 
your neighbour whose way of life is the reverse 
of your own. If your memory is weak, it is 
probably from want of exercise. Not but that 
there are great original diversities ; but still there 
is not more than one in five hundred whose memory 
might not be improved to a degree sufficient for 
every useful purpose. You have either been 
entirely neglected, or the discipline of your 
memory, having been attended to in your child¬ 
hood, has since been intermitted. If the former, 
you have no recollection of any labours in this 
kind; if the latter, you find it much harder to get 
any thing by rote than once you did. Which¬ 
ever of these is the case, you are now to begin, 
and practise, by suitable degrees. Though it is 
a faculty which admits of being put upon immense 
exertions where it has been trained, it must be 
brought up from decay by degrees. You must 
commit to memory, as a task. The task must 


104 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


be frequently renewed, and the matters given in 
charge to the memory must be increased by very 
slow degrees. 

My friend, the schoolmaster, declares to me 
that he has seen the most astonishing cures wrought 
among his lads. He has a number of little rules 
respecting memory, which are worth being re¬ 
corded. Here are some of them. 

Memory depends on three things. 

1. Attention. Attend and you will remember. 
The more you attend, the better will you remem¬ 
ber. Great fixedness of attention will burn the 
thing into your mind. Perhaps the whole of 
your difficulty has this origin. If so, you must 
go back one step, and cultivate the habit of con¬ 
centrating your thoughts. 

2. Repetition. Repeat and you will remember. 
Drop after drop wears away rocks. But a par¬ 
ticular sort of repetition must be recommended: 
Repeat and examine yourself. This is the remark 
of Lord Bacon, and almost every child has tried 
the experiment: “You will not so easily learn a 
piece of writing by rote by reading it over twenty 
times, as by reading it over ten times and trying 
every time to recite it, looking at the book when¬ 
ever you fail.”* 

3. Associations of pleasure or pain. Even a 
dog remembers where he has been whipped, and 
an ox where he has been watered. It was the 


Bacon, Nov. Org. lib. ii. Aph. 28. 


THE CULTIVATION OF MEMORY. 105 

custom, in old times, in England, to whip the 
boys of a neighbourhood at each of the march- 
stones, or division marks, between parishes; in 
order to fix it in their memories. The Choctaws 
are said to inculcate their traditions upon the 
young people, in a similar way. I would not, 
indeed, prescribe self-flagellation, great as its vir¬ 
tues are supposed to be in some orders of monks, 
but would strenuously recommend it to you, to 
call up as vivid associations of a pleasurable kind 
as you can around those things which you endea¬ 
vour to remember. 

The schoolmaster declares that he is convinced 
the ancients were right in enjoining it on their 
scholars when they wished to learn any thing 
with remarkable ease, to sleep upon it; that is to 
rehearse it just before going to rest, and just after 
rising. 

Second. The memory must be trusted. This 
principle is not less important than the foregoing, 
though less obvious. Those have the most accu¬ 
rate, prompt, and faithful recollection, who confide 
most to their memory. It is a jealous faculty, 
and does.not willingly see its functions assigned 
to another. Men who make it their habit to carry 
every thing in their heads, seldom blunder; men 
who jot down every thing are lost without their 
tablets. The penny-post knows a list of more 
names and numbers than you or I could commit 
to memory in a week. A respectable merchant 
lately said to me, “ I have scarcely any memory, 


106 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


and I attribute it to the habit of our business, in 
which we never trust any thing to our recollection, 

without an entry in some book.” Judge Y-, 

of New York, used to declare that without his 
notes of evidence he could not aver that this or 
that witness had made any observation. This 
agrees with what is said by old Montaigne: “ I 
can do nothing,” says he, “ without my memo¬ 
randum-book ; and so great is my difficulty in 
remembering proper names, that I am forced to 
call my domestic servants by their offices.” On 
the other hand, the schoolmaster relates of Hor- 
tensius, the great rival of Cicero, that he could 
attend a protracted auction, and then at the end of 
the sale give as accurate a list of items and prices 
as the clerks who kept minutes. I can believe 
this the more readily from what I have myself 
known of an analogous feat in an eminent merchant 
of a southern city. 

Practise then upon the maxim, to intrust every 
thing to your memory which may be done so 
safely. What we sometimes hear about “ over¬ 
burdening the memory” is the mere cant of a false 
philosophy. Memory is not a beast of burden. 
No man ever realized the threatened evil. We 
may make our memory labour to weariness at one 
time ; so may we do with the judgment. But in 
neither case is it the multitude of particulars which 
distresses the mind. We may again charge the 
memory with what is useless or injurious; bu* 
this is clearly distinct from going beyond its 



THE CULTIVATION OF MEMORY. 107 

capacity. We may further try to remember too 
much. But that any pain or other evil is conse¬ 
quent from the mere amount of things actually 
remembered, I resolutely deny. Trust your 
memory therefore. Beware of an inordinate use 
of common-place books. They have their use; 
but you will often find that a great transcriber into 
such volumes leaves all his stores behind him 
when he shuts his study-door. And I have heard 
the schoolmaster read passages out of Bayle, going 
to show that all common-place books were con¬ 
demned by several of the most learned men of 
former days ; as by Saumaise or Salmasius, by 
Menage, and by Govean; the last of whom went 
so far that he would not admit pen and ink into 
his library, lest transcription should interrupt his 
thinking and impair his memory.* It must be 
confessed that this would be ruinous to a poor 
writer of scraps, such as myself. 


Bayle’s Diet. art. Ancillon. 


108 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


XVII. 

THE WORKING-MAN’S JOURNEYS. 

“Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.” 

Two Gentlemen of Verona. 

The ease with which we go from one place to 
another makes us a travelling people, perhaps to 
as great an extent as is true of any equal number 
of persons in the world. Go when you will upon 
any of the great thoroughfares, as between Boston 
and Providence, between Baltimore and Philadel¬ 
phia, or especially between Philadelphia and New 
York, and you find the steamers, cars, and coaches 
filled with wanderers. I never cease to wonder 
as to what may be the impelling motive with so 
great a number, for so long a period. I have 
nevertheless been led to the opinion that our 
artisans do not travel a great deal, or even as much 
as several other classes which might be named. 
It is true they, like their neighbours, must some¬ 
times change their place. When work is dull in 
one town they go to another, and there are thus 
two streams of workmen perpetually setting be¬ 
tween our two great cities; while, in a smaller 
degree, a similar circulation of labour is kept up 
through the whole country. There is also a cur- 


THE WORKING-MAN’S JOURNEYS. 109 

rent of emigrants to the west, and in this there 
is always a considerable infusion of mechanical 
labour. But still, whatever may be done from 
necessity, mechanics as a class do not jaunt about 
much for pleasure, or for the purpose of gaining 
those particular advantages which have been sup¬ 
posed to result from travelling. Yet the mechanic 
often needs recreation and change of air; and 
where his business admits of it, it would be well 
if he could more frequently roam a little over the 
face of our wide land. In some countries, it is 
thought so important for young mechanics to 
travel for improvement in their craft, that it is 
enjoined by law. This is particularly the case 
in the German states, and deserves consideration 
from our enterprising mechanics. A German 
artisan is not thought to have completed his edu¬ 
cation until he has spent some months or years in 
working abroad. The custom is very ancient, 
and arose in a time when the modes of commu¬ 
nicating knowledge which we now have were 
altogether unknown. There were, in that day, 
no Builder’s or Millwright’s Guides, no Manuals 
for Weavers, Watchmakers, or Dyers, no Tailor’s 
Magazines. Men of trades as well as men of 
letters were forced to go from place to place, in 
order to pick up the nicer operations of their craft. 
The stream of travel naturally tended from the 
ruder to the more civilized nations. In the mid¬ 
dle ages, when Germany was rough and Italy 
refined, the young men who followed in the train 
10 


110 THE WORKING-MAN. 

of German princes and nobles on their expeditions 
to the south, brought back new trades and new 
methods from Tuscany or Venice. From being 
an accidental thing it grew to be imperative, and 
the Guilds or Trades' Unions of that day made 
it a condition of entrance into their bodies, that 
the applicant should have spent a certain number 
of years away from the place of his apprentice¬ 
ship. They regarded this as indispensably ne¬ 
cessary to the dignity and improvement of their 
calling. 

This was very important when every art was a 
mystery, and when the sleight of a clever work¬ 
man was as sacred as the nostrum of a quack. It 
was often but little of a trade that the master- 
workman could give his boys; and even where 
he was ski led, he too frequently kept his own 
secret, or set on it an exorbitant price. To acquire 
the higher polish of the art, a young man must go 
through other countries, and pick up as much as 
possible of their improvements. In this wander - 
jahre , or year of wandering, the journeyman 
found many things to learn. He saw some or 
all the materials of his daily operations, in their 
place of origin, or in great factories ; he consulted 
with celebrated artisans, or worked in favoured 
establishments, and beheld the highest achieve¬ 
ments of his art. The manifest tendency of the 
system was to equalize information, to throw 
happy inventions into the common stock; to 
awaken emulation and quicken genius; to enlarge 


THE WORKING-MAN’S JOURNEYS. Ill 

the views and add to the stock of processes. Be¬ 
sides the acknowledged advantages of all travelling, 
in an age when there was not much to prevent 
stagnation of trade, it contributed to lessen the 
number of hands where there were too many, 
and to furnish labour abroad when it became 
scarce. 

The system continues to be thought useful, 
although it is known to labour under some great 
disadvantages. It tends in many instances to 
produce roving habits, and affords great facilities 
for idleness and dissipation. I am therefore very 
far from recommending any such regular plan for 
our own country. But to a certain extent our 
mechanics might take the hint, and avail them¬ 
selves of some of the advantages of travelling. I 
have known one carpenter who made a voyage to 
Europe for the express purpose of gaining new 
ideas in his business; and I see no reason why 
it should not be more common with the better 
class of workmen. Particularly in all that relates 
to architecture or other decorative arts, it would 
seem to be highly desirable that the adept should 
have fully before his mind’s eye the greatest 
works in his own department. Sir John Soane, 
the son of a bricklayer, was an architect of great 
eminence, and derived much of his taste and skill 
from a visit of some years to Rome. But without 
crossing the seas, our enterprising artisans might 
contrive to know a little more about one another, 


112 THE WORKING-MAN. 

and to make short trips for health at the same time 
subservient to the progress of their arts. It has 
been very common for agriculturists to pursue this 
plan, as in the case of the noted Arthur Young: 
why should it not yield its fruits to the mechanic 
arts ? If the young traveller were to keep a few 
memoranda of his more valuable observations, it 
would be a useful exercise for his mind, and would 
be useful in subsequent years. And if no objec¬ 
tion can be raised against this but an indisposition 
to expend a few dollars, I can only say that this 
frugality would be much more wisely applied to 
other and less profitable indulgences. Before 
leaving this subject, I ought to remind my young 
readers, that in their journeys for pleasure or 
business, they may gain a large increase of know¬ 
ledge from all the strangers into whose company 
they are thrown. Experience soon teaches the 
traveller, that there is no one from whom either 
amusement or information may not be extracted. 
‘‘For ourselves,” says Sir Walter Scott, “we 
can assure the reader—and perhaps if we have 
ever been able to afford him amusement, it is 
owing in a great degree to this cause—that we 
never found ourselves in company with the 
stupidest of all possible companions in a post- 
chaise, or with the most arrant cumber-corner 
that ever occupied a place in the mail-coach, with¬ 
out finding that, in the course.of our conversation 
with him, we had some ideas suggested to us, 


THE WORKING-MAN ? S JOURNEYS. 113 


either grave or gay, or some information commu¬ 
nicated in the course of our journey, which we 
should have regretted not to have learned, and 
which we should be sorry to have immediately 
forgotten.” 



10 * 




’ 

■ ~ . ■ • 

: ■ • ' •* ■ • ■ 


114 


THE WORKING-MAN. 




XV III. 

APPRENTICES. 

“Ye masters, then, 

Be mindful of the rough, laborious hand 
That sinks you soft in elegance and ease; 

Be mindful of those limbs in russet clad 
Whose toil to yours is warmth and graceful pride.” 

Thomson. 

If every thing is ever effectually done in this 
country, towards elevating the industrious classes 
to their due place in society, the work must begin 
with those who are in youth. In regard to mind, 
manners, or morals, we cannot expect very great 
improvement in those who have passed middle 
life: our endeavours should be directed to the 
apprentice. 

The relation of master and apprentice was a 
closer and a warmer one in former days. The 
tad was willing to allow that he had a master , for 
a certain time and a certain purpose, and in ex¬ 
pectation of being one day a master himself. He 
thought this was no more disgraceful, than the 
subordination of the scholar to his teacher, or the 
soldier to his captain. And, in return, the em¬ 
ployer felt a responsibility proportioned to his 
authority. Good men were accustomed to treat 


APPRENTICES. 


115 


their apprentices as their sons; they gave them 
many little instructions out of the line of the trade, 
and had an eye to their religious duties. It is 
unnecessary to say, that the state of things is very 
much altered. Insubordination, radicalism, and 
a false and impracticable theory of equal rights, 
have destroyed the gentle authority which used 
to exist. The whole affair of indentures, as my 
readers very well know, is in some places be¬ 
coming a mere formality. It is less common than 
it used to be for boys to serve out their whole 
time. Many influences are at work to make lads 
impatient, and loath to continue in one place, how¬ 
ever good. And when they abscond from their 
proper service, it is not every employer who now 
thinks it worth his while to take the legal mea¬ 
sures for recovering their time. It is known to 
those who are conversant with mechanical esta¬ 
blishments in our cities, that the old-fashioned 
system is found to be ineffectual; so that master- 
workmen have to try new methods of getting the 
requisite amount of work from their hands. In 
some cases, this is effected by small remunerations 
for task-work. There are many shops in which 
there are no regular apprentices; the employers 
choosing rather to hire such labour as they can 
get. I have even heard the opinion expressed 
that the day is not far off when the whole system 
of apprenticeship will be thrown aside. 

The spirit of our age and country is a spirit of 
restless hurry. We are for quick turns, short 


116 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


cuts, and sudden results. Amidst the increased 
risks of human life, seven years is a great portion 
of the human span. Another trait of our national 
character is a dislike to all rule, just or unjust. 
It is natural for a boy to prefer variety to sameness 
of occupation; and when regular service is no 
longer compulsory, we must expect to see our 
youth flying from the severe work of shops to 
those chance jobs which give bread to so many 
thousands in our streets. 

The effects of this condition of things are mani¬ 
festly bad. We are falling between two systems. 
We are slipping away from the old plan of former 
ages, and have not yet alighted upon a better— 
one more suited to modern improvements. If 
boys and youth may serve one year or six years 
at their own option, if they may run from one 
employer to another, upon every whim; if they 
may even exchange their trade two or three times 
before they come of age,—is it not as plain as 
day, that the proportion of really accomplished 
workmen must lessen from year to year ? And 
this being the case, several evils must necessarily 
ensue, which are too obvious to need recital. 

But the nature of things does not alter: skilled 
labour, like other commodities, will find a market, 
and will bring the highest price. This is begin¬ 
ning to show itself in certain kinds of manufacture, 
in which foreign artisans are coming in, to the 
exclusion of our own countrymen. It is as vain 
as it is unrighteous, for us to fold our arms and 


APPRENTICES. 


117 


raise an outcry against foreign labour, and form 
associations of native Americans. If we do not 
secure the thorough trade-education of our own 
youth, we must expect to see all the finer and 
more difficult branches taken out of our hands. 
As a general thing, I am glad to know that this is 
far from being the case: I speak only of tendencies , 
and I do not think it can be denied that the ten¬ 
dency of the change I have mentioned is to evil. 

But there are moral consequences of this relaxa¬ 
tion of the old system, which are still more to be 
deplored. As the tie between the employer and 
the apprentice becomes slight, there is a lessening 
of authority on the one side and of duty on the 
other, as well as of affection on both. We often 
talk of the advantages of domestic influence, the 
bonds of the fireside, the charm of home : and on 
this point it would be hard for us to speak too 
much, or too enthusiastically. But where is the 
apprentice's home? It is not in his father’s 
house : in the greater number of cases, this is not 
within reach. It is not his employer’s house ; at 
least under the prevailing system, and in our cities 
and large towns. For this there are various l 
reasons. In great manufactories, where there are 
at least a dozen boys—these of course cannot be 1 
allowed to overrun the employer’s house: they 
are often put out to board elsewhere. In neither 
case have they a home .—Even where there is 
only an ordinary number, as the master is no longer 
a parent, the apprentice feels no longer like a son. 


118 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


Where can he spend his evenings ? Not in the 
garret or loft where he sleeps: in winter it is cold; 
in summer it is suffocating.—Not in the kitchen: 
he would be in the way. Not in the sitting-room : 
that would be too familiar.—Where can he spend 
the long hours of his Sunday ? Let us look the 
truth in the face: The apprentice has no home. 
Is it any wonder that at night we hear the heavy 
tramp of their feet upon our pavements as they 
career along by scores ? Is it any wonder that 
they crowd our oyster-houses, porter-cellars, bar¬ 
rooms, shows, and wait for checks about the doors 
of our theatres ? 

The moral consequences of this I need not 
dwell upon: they are open to the day. I am not 
so chimerical as to propose a return to old ways, 
or to hang on the wheels of modern improvement. 
I only urge, that the old system of master and 
apprentice, when carried out in practice, had cer¬ 
tain advantages, which are not provided for in our 
present methods. If we do not wish our young 
mechanics to become an easy prey to vice, we 
must set about some preventive measures. The 
apprentice must have some agreeable place in 
which to spend his leisure moments. I am accus¬ 
tomed to see some of the best youth I know, 
passing their Sundays in the street or the fields. 
Vice opens many doors to the less scrupulous: 
surely virtue ought to do as much. For a number 
of years, it has been my deliberate and unchanged 
opinion, that no man could bestow a greater benefit 


APPRENTICES. 


119 


on our working-classes, than he who should devise 
and offer to apprentices a pleasing, popular, and 
ever-open resort for their leisure hours, where they 
might not only feel at home, but be out of the reach 
of temptation, and in the way of mental improve¬ 
ment. It is worthy of consideration in our Lyceums 
and Mechanics’ Institutes. And if this volume 
should fall into the hands of any friends of the 
young mechanic, in such towns or villages as are 
without Lyceums or Mechanics’ Institutions, I 
would urge on them a new and strenuous effort to 
procure the establishment of such truly useful 
associations. The attempt will cost some pains ; 
it will be opposed by some, and sneered at by 
others, and some will stand aloof and recount the 
history of similar enterprises, and their failure. 
But, nevertheless, the thing has been done, and 
can be done again; and there is no good reason 
why every town in America should not be adorned 
by a graceful edifice devoted to the mental im¬ 
provement of the young artisan. 


120 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


XIX. 

trades’ unions. 

“ Heaven forming each on other to depend, 

A master, or a servant, or a friend, 

Bids each on other for assistance call, 

Till one man’s weakness grows the strength of all." 

Pope. 

Upon the question, TVhat shall be the wages 
of labour? the world of enterprise is naturally 
divided into two parties. For it is obvious, that 
the employer will desire to give as little as he can, 
and the workman to receive as much as he can. 
And in the great majority of instances, the advan¬ 
tage in this contest has been on the side of the 
master-workmen, as being able to combine more 
easily, and to subsist longer without new receipts. 
This state of things, however, has received a very 
important disturbance from the expansion of the 
credit system ; which, so far as this controversy 
is concerned, has brought the two parties more 
nearly upon a level. 

In order to place themselves upon terms of some 
equality in the contest, it was necessary that ope¬ 
ratives should in some way or other combine for 
mutual support; and in the case of those who are 


trades’ unions. 


121 


called “skilled workmen,” the effect of such com¬ 
binations has often been sudden and extensive. 

In attempting to raise and keep up wages above 
their natural rate, various methods have been used. 
The most obvious is that of refusing to work for 
less than a certain sum agreed upon; and where 
the combination is universal or very extensive, this 
is likely to have its effect in the case of skilled 
labour. Another method not much unlike this in 
its principle, is that of combining to lessen the 
hours of labour, the price remaining the same. 
A third is that of limiting the number of skilled 
workmen in any district; and this method has 
from time to time been imbodied in the municipal 
customs and statutory provisions of many couir 
tries. To this source we owe all the guilds or 
trade-corporations of England, the statutes of 
apprenticeship, the tours of journeymen ( wander - 
jahre) in Germany, and similar expedients; the 
object being in every case the same, namely, to 
make labour more costly, by making it more diffi¬ 
cult to be procured. Upon the same principle, 
in some of the Spice Islands, it has been customary 
to destroy part of the pepper crop in order to raise 
the price of the commodity. 

The corporations of the middle ages were the 
basis of all our municipal privileges, as indeed 
they were the cradle of modern civic prosperity 
in general: they were, in those rude periods, a 
necessary safeguard for the peaceful burgher 
against the ruthless and iron-handed barons and 


122 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


their feudatories. But the state of things has 
greatly changed with the advancement of society. 
As the defences of established law have formed 
themselves around the mechanic and the labourer, 
those irregular and extraordinary provisions should 
have been abandoned; as being no less antiquated 
and no less dangerous than the famous Secret 
Tribunals of the dark ages; which nevertheless 
were almost demanded in a state of things where 
society was in a perpetual conflict: 

“ For why 1 Because the good old rule 
Sufficed them; the simple plan, 

That they should take who have the power, 

And they should keep who can.”*' 

But we have lived to see a new growth spring- 
ing up in the rank soil of modern civilization. In 
the unexampled increase and mighty influence of 
Trades’ Unions there is every thing to awaken 
the interest of the political and the moral philoso¬ 
pher. Viewing what has occurred within a few 
years, we can only say, with Talleyrand, It is 
the beginning of the end! No man can examine 
the influence of this organization of the working- 
classes, without perceiving that, unless arrested, it 
must give origin to a state of society totally dif¬ 
ferent from any that the world has ever seen; 
whether better or worse than that which has pre¬ 
ceded, events will prove. 


* Wordsworth. 


trades’ unions. 123 

The early dissensions of republican Rome gave 
occasion to Menenius Agrippa to rehearse the 
fable of the Belly and the Members; an apologue 
which is no less instructive and appropriate now, 
than it was then. Nothing can fail to be dis¬ 
organizing and ruinous, which tends to set the 
rich against the poor, or marshals these two 
classes into conflicting hosts. And such is the 
tendency of that fearful system which is beginning 
to spread itself among our happy yeomanry. 




124 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


XX. 

trades’ unions. 

Continued. 

“We see, we hear with peril: Safety dwells 
Remote from multitude. The world’s a school 
Of wrong, and what proficients swarm around! 

We must or imitate or disapprove; 

Must list as their accomplices or foes.” 

Young. 

The true way to judge of Trades’ Unions is to 
see them at home; to examine their working in 
the place of their origin, and where their influence 
is most extensive. In this country they are still 
in their infancy, and we can scarcely see their 
ultimate tendencies; but in Great Britain and 
Ireland they have existed for a long period, and 
we may sit in fair judgment upon their results. 
Every year brings us nearer and nearer to the 
transatlantic pattern : we borrow their organiza¬ 
tion, their methods, their “ slang-terms,” and their 
men. Here, as there, we have our weekly con¬ 
tributions, our forms of initiation, our committees 
of vigilance, our flags and mottoes and processions. 
Perhaps in due course of time we may have our 
burnings, maimings, and assassinations. But be- 


TRADES* UNIONS. 


125 


fore we allow things to get to this pass, it becomes 
us to sit down and count the cost. Let us look 
into some of the reasons pro and contra. 

If a contest were necessary between the rich 
and the poor, (which we heartily believe it is not, 
but on the contrary that, in the long run, their 
interests are identical,) if it were necessary that 
capital and labour should be placed in conflict— 
we should be ready to concede that every facility 
and aid should be allowed to the working-man, 
because he is under all sorts of disadvantage. 
This is less true in America, where, for the most 
part, labour and capital go together; but in Great 
Britain mechanics and other labourers need every 
species of lawful union to bear them up against 
the weight of capital and easy concert which is 
marshalled on the other side. No man who has 
a heart can become acquainted with the distresses 
which exist in the thronged manufactories of Bri¬ 
tain, without being tempted to pray that this un¬ 
natural system may never become paramount in 
our own beloved country, where millions of unfilled 
acres still invite the pallid and starving artisan. 
No wonder the working-classes desire to increase 
the rewards of labour; no wonder they take pity 
on their own flesh and blood, and combine to 
relieve them. And if wages, by any such expe¬ 
dient, could be made to rise and stand at an ele¬ 
vated point, we should say that the benefit had 
almost indemnified society for the dreadful losses 
sustained in the process. If, as has been held by 
11 * 


128 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


But imagine the case, that all the Unions, of all 
the trades thus combined in all the country, agree 
to force up the wages of labour. Unless they can 
simultaneously augment the productive power of 
the country, there is of necessity a fall in profits, 
or, in other words, a decrease in the accumulation 
of capital. Let us hear Dr. Vethake upon this 
point. “ Every retardation of the rate in which 
capital accumulates will be accompanied by 'the 
two effects of a less rapid increase of population, 
and of a diminished rate of wages. Moreover, 
but for the enjoyment for a time by the labouring 
classes of a higher rate of wages, which will render 
them less disposed to content themselves with the 
wages they were before accustomed to, the dimi¬ 
nution of wages will proceed until they are reduced 
once more to their former rate. The tendency of 
them, however, to be for this reason at a some¬ 
what higher rate than formerly, would in all pro¬ 
bability be more than counteracted by the sum 
total of production, when compared with the 
augmented population, having, from the necessity 
of applying capital and labour to the land under 
more disadvantageous circumstances than before, 
become diminished ; a condition of things, it will 
be recollected, implying a rise of rents, and a fall 
of profits and wages.” The same learned man 
guards us against the selfish rejoinder that this 
effect may not take place until years shall have 
passed away; by showing that from the very 
moment a rise of wages takes place, the rate of 


trades’ unions. 


129 


profits will be reduced, capital accumulate slowly, 
and wages will fall. Besides this, the real wages 
of the working-man will not increase by any means 
as his pecuniary wages. He will find it harder 
to get work, and the commodities he needs will 
be higher in price. 

The voice of political philosophy is therefore 
unequivocal. “ Even setting aside wholly (says 
Dr. Vethake) the permanently injurious effects 
to result , I think that an unprejudiced person 
can scarcely avoid concluding against every system 
of the kind: not only in respect to the interests 
of the community regarded as a whole, but also 
in respect to those of the very parties to benefit 
whom is the object proposed.” 


130 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


XXI. 

I 

THE WORKING-MAN’S LIBERTIES. 

j “ Mortals, that would follow me, 

’ Love Virtue, she alone is free.” 

Mii/rox. 

It would be much too trite to be welcome, if I 
were to say, that the tendency of things, in our 
free country, is towards licentiousness. But I 
shall account myself happy, if tumults, and revolts 
against equitable rule, do not drive some among 
us to ask for a strong government, as a resource 
against perpetual alarms. There is danger of this; 
and the way to counteract a disposition so unlike 
that in which we were all bred, and-so inconsistent 
with the principles of our government, is certainly 
not unworthy of being searched for. In a knot 
of village politicians, whom I sometimes encounter 
of an evening, I listen with both ears to whatever 
may be said; and though I am without a tongue 
in such matters, I cannot help having an opinion. 
One thing is constantly showing itself, and I ask 
attention to my surmises. The red-hot Jacobins 
of our time are playing into the hands of the 
absolutists of Europe. While they try to set the 
poor against the rich—forgetting that he who is 


THE WORKING-MAN’S LIBERTIES. 131 

poor to-day may be rich to-morrow; while they 
dupe the unthinking with the old Agrarian song 
which befooled the Romans under the Gracchi, 
and the English mob under Jack Cade, and will 
never fail, till the world be wiser, to lift the dema¬ 
gogue another round of the ladder, and crush the 
poor fellows of whom he has made his stepping- 
stone ; while they teach that all rule is tyranny, 
and all subordination degrading, they are preparing 
the happiest consummation for the enemies of 
republican government. No union of foreign 
legitimists could break our bulwarks. All the 
power of Europe would only, like pressure on an 
arch, compact us more closely. Open assault, 
though gigantic and reiterated, would put us on 
our strong national points of resistance; nor do I 
believe there is the power on earth which could 
force a king upon America. The blood of the 
old free colonists runs proudly yet. All fourth 
of July harangues to the contrary notwithstanding 
—we never were slaves; we never can be—unless 
we sell ourselves. 

I am alarmed to hear quiet men expressing 
themselves in new phrases; as if our great ex¬ 
periment had almost failed. They have no reason, 
to say so, except the rampant licentiousness and 
turbulent ferocity of certain agitators. But these 
occasional outbreaks tend to loosen our anchorage, 
to strain our holdfasts, and even when we wish 
to weigh and be off, the cables may part just when 
the anchors come a-peak. Principles are wearing 


132 THE WORKING-MAN. 

away silently but fast, in some very useful minds, 
which might be of great service to us at a pinch; 
and this change is owing entirely to the revulsion 
caused by licentious temerity. 

I am not one of those who dread so much from 
the direct influence of mobs and riots. There is, 
in the worst of them more show of teeth than 
bloodshed, more powder than ball; thanks to 
Providence that it is so. More lives are lost in 
a dozen street-fights, or one steam-explosion, than 
in the riots of ten years. We are a strong people, 
and can resist a number of partial shocks, just as 
we resisted Shays’ insurrection, and the Whisky 
Boys. Our Anglo-Saxon reserve holds off the 
supreme, ultimate force of repression as long as 
possible; but it comes out at last, like Neptune, 
to still the waves. “A disorderly multitude,” 
says Addison, in one of his works, which we have 
learned from British tories to neglect,* “ a dis¬ 
orderly multitude contending with the body of tbe 
legislature, is like a man in a fit under the conduct 
of one in the fulness of his health and strength. 
Such a one is sure to be overruled in a little time, 
though he deals about his blows, and exerts him¬ 
self in the most furious convulsions while the dis¬ 
temper is upon him.” But my apprehensions are 
of another sort. Our danger is from the disgust 
which is likely to arise in a large and influential 
portion of society, upon beholding the destructive 
efforts of ambitious or disaffected citizens. The 
* The Freeholder, No. 28. 


THE WORKING-MAN’S LIBERTIES. 133 

frame of our government, as left us by the heroic 
men who planned and established it, is the master¬ 
piece of political architecture; it was often and 
justly compared to a Temple of Freedom. “ But 
now,” we may say with an ancient poet, “ they 
break down the carved work thereof with axes 
and hammers.” There is perhaps no man, of any 
trade, who does not think himself wise enough to 
tinker at a state constitution. 

With the aid of my friend Mr. Appletree, the 
schoolmaster, and my favourite Plutarch, I could 
easily multiply instances of the dangers of licen¬ 
tiousness and excess among a free people. The 
ancient histories are full of this. So are the 
eventful stories of modern Italy. A volume might 
be filled with the turmoil of Florence alone. And 
all these examples go to show how important it is 
for our young men to set out in life with proper 
principles, and to maintain the golden mean betwixt 
Scylla and Charybdis. For there are two ex¬ 
tremes. On the one side is the scented, girlish, 
long-haired fopling, fresh from Paris or London, 
who tries to acquire distinction by disparaging 
American institutions. Though his grandfather, 
perhaps, wrought with his own hands, the stripling 
looks on all republicanism as ungenteel. And on 
the other side is the braggart and ruffian, who 
would resign every question to the mob as the 
source of power, and have the country convulsed 
by annual popular elections of every functionary 
from a judge to a constable. “A usurping popu- 
12 


134 


THE WORKING-MAN, 


lace,” said Swift, “ is its own dupe, a mere under¬ 
worker, and a purchaser in trust for some simple 
tyrant, whose state and power they advance to 
their own ruin, with as blind an instinct as those 
worms that die with weaving magnificent habits 
for beings of a superior order. The people are 
more dexterous in pulling down and setting up, 
than at preserving what is fixed: and they are not 
fonder of seizing more than their own, than they 
are of delivering it up again to the worst bidder, 
with their own into the bargain.” 

The upshot of the matter is this: people should 
be taught from their cradles what true freedom is, 
and how it is to be maintained; how it differs 
from lawlessness and misrule, and how closely it 
is connected with popular virtue. The boy at 
school and in the shop should be taught, that 
nothing can be done without order; that there can 
be no order without law ; that all law demands 
obedience ; and that in such obedience to rightful 
authority, there is nothing which either injures or 
degrades. The apprentice and the journeyman 
should learn betimes, that to loosen a single pin 
of the social machine is like loosening the pin of 
a steam-engine; and wherever the disorganization 
may begin, it will never stop till it ruins those 
who have begun it. When public disorders, and 
civil broils, and revolutionary violence once enter, 
the very class of persons who always bear the 
worst of the tempest, is that for whose benefit I 
am writing—the honest, temperate, home-loving, 
industrious, frugal working-men. 


IN A STRANGE LAND. 


135 


■•A* 


! XXII. 

THE WORKING-MAN IN A STRANGE LAND. 

“ But the stranger that dwelleth with you shall be unto 
you as one born among you, and thou shalt love him as 
thyself; for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt.” 

Lev. xix. 34. 

On a cold Saturday night, I stepped into a hat¬ 
ter’s shop, in New York, to supply the loss of a 
beaver, which had been hopelessly injured in a 
crush at a public meeting. The gas-light before 
the door threw its gleam directly in the face of a 
young woman who was sitting near the counter. 
I perceived in a moment that she was thin, pale, 
and sorrowful. Her dark hair was ready to fall 
over her cheeks, as if she had forgotten to fasten 
it; her lips seemed to move; and the folds of a 
scanty black woollen shawl could not so far hide 
her hands but that I perceived she was wringing 
them. I remained some minutes in the shop, 
and, during that time, saw at least seven or eight 
young women and girls come into the place with 
work which they had been doing, after delivering 
which they received their payment. But still this 
sad creature kept her seat. At length the young 
man of the establishment said, in a tone somewhat 


136 


THE WORKING-MAN, 


peevish, “Come, Jane—it is nearly ten o’clock— 

I am going to shut up—and you know you have 
been paid.” She looked wildly up for a moment, 
and then dashed out of the house as if she had 
only then awaked from a stupor. “ She is in a 
fair way to be crazy,” said the young man. 

“Ah !” rejoined I, much interested, “what has 
happened to her?” “Oh! I can scarcely tell you 
the whole,” said he; “ she is one of those con¬ 
founded Irish—they all come to ruin.” “ I hope 
the girl is virtuous,” said I. “ Oh! virtuous 
enough, I warrant ye,” cried he, with a vulgar 
addition, and a horse-laugh; “ otherwise she 
would not be sewing fifteen hours a day on hat- 
linings. But then her father is sick in bed, her 
mother is just dead, the only brother she has is 
in jail for stealing a piece of domestic cotton, and 
there are three little sisters that have to be sup¬ 
ported by this one. I happen to know all this ; 
for her brother used to drive an omnibus in which 
I came down town every morning.” 

In reflecting on this case, as I walked to my 
lodgings, I was oppressed with a recollection of 
the vulgar saying, that “ one half the world does 
not know how the other half lives.” How would 
it shock, even the most heartless, to have gathered 
before him, at a single glance, all the cases of this 
particular kind of misery, existing at this very 
moment in New York, or in Philadelphia. Alas l 
the stranger and foreigner finds many of his golden 
dreams untrue ; and dies a thousand deaths, in 


IN A STRANGE LAND. 


137 


beholding the less rugged members of his family 
perish before him. Beauty, health, and innocence 
are too often the sacrifice, when a piercing and 
unexpected season of cold and poverty come sud¬ 
denly on a young creature in a strange country. 

No man will have the hardihood to deny that 
we suffer serious inconveniences from the unlimited 
importation of foreigners. But every humane 
man will remember, that the day was when all 
the settlers of this country were emigrants; that 
his own ancestors came from abroad ; that not all 
are ignorant, vicious, or uncivilized; and that 
even where vice has been the source of misery, 
such misery is not to be abandoned to despair 
and ruin. 

It is the fashion to say much against the Irish 
as improvident, intemperate, and riotous; and no 
one can deny that some such charge is no more 
than fair against a large number ; but it is a mo¬ 
mentous question in morals, how far we are ex¬ 
empted from the duty of relieving the widow, the 
fatherless, the sick, or the aged, of any nation, 
because some, or even most, of the same lineage 
are vicious people. Some of the best blood in 
America is from Ireland. Some of the best citizens 
are the sons of Irishmen. Before we condemn, 
or spurn from our doors, the poor son of Erin, 
we are to remember that he flies to us from untold 
wrongs, and that he has heard of ours as the land 
of the oppressed. We need not go so far in our 
proscription as to denounce every creature that has 


138 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


the brogue upon his tongue. I well remember 
having once stopped for a moment in Pine street, 
to look at a boy who had been thrown from a 
horse. Several men were around a pump at 
which they were washing the mire and blood from 
his face. “ Who frightened the horse ?” some¬ 
body inquired. “ Oh,” cried a bystander, “ no¬ 
body can tell; but it was some-Irishman, 

I’ll bet.” This was carrying out the native Ame¬ 
rican policy, with a vengeance. The beauty of 
the thing was, that not ten rods off, in a door-way, 
stood the Rev. Mr. P., a genuine Irishman, with 
whom I was going to breakfast. He heard the 
critical portion of the speech, and sadly smiled. 
By-the-by, it would require the laborious charities 
of several common Americans towards the Irish, 
to repay the beneficence of this good clergyman 
among the sick poor of our own country. In 
conclusion, let me say, that I am neither an Irish¬ 
man, nor the son of an Irishman. 



ADVANTAGES OF WORKING-MEN. 139 


XXIII. 

ADVANTAGES OF AMERICAN WORKING-MEN. 

“ How small, of all that human hearts endure, 

That part which laws or kings can cause or cure! 
Still to ourselves in every place consign’d, 

Our own felicity we make or find.” 

The Traveller. 

It is not uncommon to hear mechanics and 
other working-men repining at their lot in life, 
especially as compared with that of such as are 
engaged in the learned professions. In hours of 
despondency, those are imagined to be happy 
who are freed from the necessity of manual labour, 
whether as men of wealth or of letters. Content¬ 
ment is the best policy. All is not gold that glit¬ 
ters. Inaction is not ease. Money will not pur¬ 
chase happiness. Lords and ladies are often very 
wretched people ; and the instances are numerous 
in which even kings have thought men of humble 
stations the happiest. 

M. d’Alembert relates that Frederick, king of 
Prussia, once said to him, as they were walking 
together in the gardens of Sans Souci, “ Do you 
see that old woman, a poor weeder, asleep on that 
fcunny bank ? She is probably happier than either 


140 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


of us.” So also Henry IV. exclaims, in Shak- 
speare, 

“ Canst thou, O partial Sleep! give thy repose 
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude; 

And in the calmest and most stillest night, 

With all appliances and aids to boot, 

Deny it to a king 

which may remind us of the saying of a greater 
and wiser king than either: “ The sleep of a 
labouring-man is sweet, whether he eat little or 
much; but the abundance of the rich will not 
suffer him to sleep.”* And before I dismiss my 
royal witnesses, let me cite King James the First, 
of England, who used to say, that the happiest 
lot in life was that which set a man below the 
office of a justice of the peace, and above that of 
a petty constable.! 

The truth is, labour is not an evil. “ In the 
sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread,” sounds 
like a curse, but has been made a blessing by our 
benign Creator. Health, strength, and cheerful¬ 
ness are promoted by the proper use of our bodily 
powers. Among the Jews, labour was accounted 
so honourable and so necessary, that every man 
used to be bred to some trade; that so he might 
have a resource in case of misfortune. The same 
sentiment has prevailed in other eastern nations. 
One of the Hebrew Rabbies has the surname of 

* Eccles. v. 12. 

•f Life of Philip Henry, p. 25. 


ADVANTAGES OF WORKING-MEN. 141 


the Shoemaker, and another of the Baker. Sir 
Paul Ricaut somewhere mentions, that the Grand 
Seignior, to whom he was ambassador, had been 
taught to make wooden spoons. There cannot 
be a greater mistake than to suppose that mental 
exertion is less wearing than the labour of the 
hands. Head work is the hardest work in the 
world. The artisan feels this if at any time he 
has to spend a whole day in calculation. Ail men 
of learning testify to the same truth, and their 
meager frames and sallow complexions tell a 
plainer tale than their words. Sir Edward Coke, 
the great English lawyer, speaks thus concerning 
his great work: “ Whilst we were in hand with 
these four parts of the Institutes, we often having 
occasion to go into the country, did in some sort 
envy the state of the honest ploughman and other 
mechanics. For one, when he was at his work, 
would merrily sing, and the ploughman whistle 
some self-pleasing tune, and yet their work both 
proceeded and succeeded ; but he that takes upon 
him to write, doth captivate all the faculties and 
powers, both of his mind and body, and must be 
only attentive to that which he collecteth, without 
any expression of joy or cheerfulness while he 
is at his work.” 

But if it is true of working-men everywhere 
that as such their lot is not to be deplored, it is 
eminently true of working-men in America, as 
compared with those of other countries. It is 
important that information on this subject should 


142 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


be diffused among the industrious classes, in order 
to show them how unreasonable are their murmurs. 
Take the case of the common labourer; he is bet¬ 
ter clothed, better lodged, and better fed, in Ame¬ 
rica, than in any country on earth. Two-thirds 
of the French people, says M. Dupin, are at this 
day wholly deprived of the nourishment of animal 
food, and they live on chestnuts, Indian corn, or 
potatoes. In parts of Normandy, the lace-makers 
take refuge in the cow-houses, where the breath 
of the cattle diffuses some warmth : here they do 
the whole of their work during the cold season. 
Even in England, many of the hand-loom workers 
receive but seven shillings a week, and live in 
damp hovels, almost without furniture. I need 
not say how different is the case of the poorest 
labourer among ourselves ; while the condition of 
the thriving mechanic is, in comparison, almost 
princely. Mr. Grund, an intelligent foreigner, 
says, on this point, “ On entering the house of a 
respectable mechanic in any of the large cities of 
the United States, one cannot but be astonished 
at the apparent neatness and comfort of the apart¬ 
ments, the large airy parlours, the nice carpets 
and mahogany furniture, and the tolerably good 
library, showing the inmates’ acquaintance with 
the standard works of English literature. The 
labouring classes in America are really less re¬ 
moved from the wealthy merchants and profes¬ 
sional men than they are in any part of Europe.” 

The American mechanic has the prospect of 


ADVANTAGES OF WORKING-MEN. 148 


wealth spread before him ; and as he advances 
towards it, his leisure increases with his means. 
He has an opportunity to lay in stores of know¬ 
ledge. If he has attended somewhat to learning 
in his younger days, he finds no obstacle now in 
the way of his advancement either in science or 
literature. With a moderate income, and a favour¬ 
able situation, he can give his sons and daughters 
a far better education than he received himself. 
And if he is so happy as to be a member of any 
Christian church, he finds that there is no privi¬ 
lege, trust, or office from which he is excluded 
by his having been a labouring-man. Thus he 
mingles with the choicest portions of society; and 
if he live to old age, enjoys the grateful repose 
of that season as fully as the proudest descendant 
from nobles. Is there any country but our own, 
where all this can be said with truth ? 

Go into any of the American towns and large 
villages, and you will find mechanics occupying 
some of the most elegant mansions; you will see 
them filling the highest municipal stations. You 
will recognise them in large proportion among 
the officers of the militia, in the direction of 
moneyed corporations, and upon the most im¬ 
proved farms. You will find their names in every 
ecclesiastical record, and high in the list of benefac¬ 
tors in every charity. Such are the signs which 
should satisfy every American working-man, that 
by choosing a laborious calling, he has not excluded 
himself from comfort, usefulness, or honour. 


142 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


be diffused among the industrious classes, in order 
to show them how unreasonable are their murmurs. 
Take the case of the common labourer; he is bet¬ 
ter clothed, better lodged, and better fed, in Ame¬ 
rica, than in any country on earth. Two-thirds 
of the French people, says M. Dupin, are at this 
day wholly deprived of the nourishment of animal 
food, and they live on chestnuts, Indian corn, or 
potatoes. In parts of Normandy, the lace-makers 
take refuge in the cow-houses, where the breath 
of the cattle diffuses some warmth: here they do 
the whole of their work during the cold season. 
Even in England, many of the hand-loom workers 
receive but seven shillings a week, and live in 
damp hovels, almost without furniture. I need 
not say how different is the case of the poorest 
labourer among ourselves ; while the condition of 
the thriving mechanic is, in comparison, almost 
princely. Mr. Grund, an intelligent foreigner, 
says, on this point, “ On entering the house of a 
respectable mechanic in any of the large cities of 
the United States, one cannot but be astonished 
at the apparent neatness and comfort of the apart¬ 
ments, the large airy parlours, the nice carpets 
and mahogany furniture, and the tolerably good 
library, showing the inmates’ acquaintance with 
the standard works of English literature. The 
labouring classes in America are really less re¬ 
moved from the wealthy merchants and profes¬ 
sional men than they are in any part of Europe.” 

The American mechanic has the prospect of 


ADVANTAGES OF WORKING-MEN. 14S 

wealth spread before him ; and as he advances 
towards it, his leisure increases with his means. 
He has an opportunity to lay in stores of know¬ 
ledge. If he has attended somewhat to learning 
in his younger days, he finds no obstacle now in 
the way of his advancement either in science or 
literature. With a moderate income, and a favour¬ 
able situation, he can give his sons and daughters 
a far better education than he received himself. 
And if he is so happy as to be a member of any 
Christian church, he finds that there is no privi¬ 
lege, trust, or office from which he is excluded 
by his having been a labouring-man. Thus he 
mingles with the choicest portions of society; and 
if he live to old age, enjoys the grateful repose 
of that season as fully as the proudest descendant 
from nobles. Is there any country but our own, 
where all this can be said with truth ? 

Go into any of the American towns and large 
villages, and you will find mechanics occupying 
some of the most elegant mansions; you will see 
them filling the highest municipal stations. You 
will recognise them in large proportion among 
the officers of the militia, in the direction of 
moneyed corporations, and upon the most im¬ 
proved farms. You will find their names in every 
ecclesiastical record, and high in the list of benefac¬ 
tors in every charity. Such are the signs which 
should satisfy every American working-man, that 
by choosing a laborious calling, he has not excluded 
himself from comfort, usefulness, or honour. 


144 


THE WORICING-MAN. 


XXIV. 

THE VILLAGE TALKER. 

“ Talkers are no good doers.” 

King Richard III. 

After the lapse of twenty odd years, I have 
full in my mind’s eye the person of Sandy Thorp. 
He was a grown man, while I was still a child, 
yet a large portion of his life passed within my 
knowledge; which will be the more credible when 
I say that the better portion of his days was passed 
in the street. Not that he did not sometimes, 
nay, often, drop into the door of a tavern; for he 
knew everybody; but this was only the brief 
exception, like the alighting of the swallow. It 
might be said that Sandy was always on the wing. 
Not even Socrates was less fond of the country 
than Sandy Thorp, who, like the same great sage, 
was almost perpetually engaged in discourse by 
the wayside. At whatever hour you might choose 
to go down town, you would be sure to see Sandy, 
whatever else you might miss. In the early 
summer morning he would be loitering around 
the stage-office to get a glimpse of the passengers 
who had lbdged for the night; perhaps to snatch 
up a grain of news. When the tavern boarders 


THE VILLAGE TALKER. 145 

were picking their teeth on the porch after break¬ 
fast, Sandy picked his teeth under the same 
auspices. The opening of our little post-office 
usually gathered a group, of whom he was always 
one. As the sun came out hotter and hotter, he 
would retreat from the open ways, to some shed 
or awning, or saunter from shop to shop, always 
on his feet, and evidently preferring the outside 
to the inside of the door. At that still hour of the 
afternoon, when the Spaniard takes his siesta, 
when ladies are invisible, and when every thing 
seems to be dead, Sandy was as brisk as the bee 
that hummed over his head; for wherever a list¬ 
ener could be found he was haranguing, with¬ 
rapid puffs from the short pipe which he employed 
to keep down his nervous agitation. The night 
did not close his activity, and I have often heard 
his voice, long before I could discern his form, 
among the worthies who make this the favourite 
season of their promenade. 

Perhaps I am drawing a picture which will be 
recognised in more towns than one. Certain I 
am there can be no mistake in that in which I 
write. Though Sandy is long since dead, the 
race is not extinct. That which characterized 
him was his ubiquity and his news-mongering. 
It was his pride to be at the first of every rumour. 
You could not tell him any thing new, or make 
him wonder at any thing unheard of: as he would 
not be instructed, the marvel was how he ever 
came to the knowledge of his facts. Only two 
13 


146 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


explanations have ever been attempted; one was 
that he never so much heard as overheard; though 
not a willing listener, he was an eavesdropper: 
and while he hung upon the outskirts of a gathering 
of men, he would carry away more of the conver¬ 
sation than any one of the company. Another 
account was that many of the incidents which he 
related were of his own manufacture. 

No occurrence ever mortified him more, than 
when Gleig, the Scotch stone-cutter, his next door 
neighbour, absconded during the night, leaving 
Sandy in the vocative with regard to the rent of a 
little yard in which he worked at his tomb-stone. 
He could not pretend that it had been done with 
his privity, because he had been cozened: he 
would not confess ignorance, because he would 
thus lose the chief plume in his cap. For several 
days he was missing from the village, and always 
spoke of the event as very mysterious. 

It is remarkable that in almost every place, 
there are some men who seem to have no means 
of support, and who live along for years together, 
without suspicion of actual dishonesty, and with¬ 
out falling into the clutches of the law. If Sandy 
Thorp ever had a trade, nobody could tell what it 
was. He owned a little shop separate from his 
house, but no work was ever done in it, and when 
any one was allowed to peep into it there seemed 
to be nothing in it but old iron, scattered tools, 
and refuse furniture and harness. In earlier life 
Sandy picked up a dollar now and then, by going 


THE VILLAGE TALKER. 


147 


to the beach for a wagon load of fish, or by filling 
an ice-house, or in the spring of the year by bring¬ 
ing in choice forest trees for planting in pleasure- 
grounds. But his main employment was that of 
a veterinary surgeon, or, more vulgarly, a horse 
doctor. Whether this science comes by inspira¬ 
tion, or whether he was a seventh son, I know 
not, but he took it up, as most do, without any 
regular diploma. Like all loungers about tavern- 
doors, he was much engaged in passing judgment 
on all the horses of the neighbourhood. You 
might see him, almost daily, feeling the legs, or 
prying into the mouths of the hacks in the stable- 
yard : and, let me not fail to say, it is an employ¬ 
ment in which he has not left us without suc¬ 
cessors. I distinctly remember the air with which 
he would handle a fleam, or perform the operation 
of mashing upon a choked cow. Such perform¬ 
ances are sure to collect a little knot of men, and 
this was just what Sandy gloried in. Here he 
could repeat the freshest news, and give his deci¬ 
sion upon affairs of state with an air of judicial 
complacency. 

Sandy was little versed in books. He always 
knew, however, what sign the sun was in, and 
whether the heavens were favourable for planting, 
or for killing porkers. He was weather-wise, 
keeping the breast-bone of a goose, by way of 
teraphim. No one ever saw him in church, 
except at funerals, on which occasion he was in 
some sort a brevet undertaker; he would point 


148 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


out the way for the bearers, and determined whe¬ 
ther the grave was wide enough. At vendues, 
he was scarcely ever known to bid, but he advised 
in a knowing way. Of money he had little con¬ 
cern ; the instinct of beggars always led them to 
pass him by. By long continued street-walking, 
he had reduced his frame to a wiry fibre ; and as 
he was tall, erect, and always thinly clad, his 
appearance was striking. I ought to add that he 
was never shabby. Ilis apparel though very old 
was always in repair, the patches and darns being 
done with a neatness which made some suspect 
he had been a tailor. It was observed that when 
he had worn a hat for several years, and exhausted 
the powers of brushing and ironing, he used 'to 
put crape upon it: in such cases, it always hap¬ 
pened, that he had recently lost a cousin in the 
“ Lake country.” As long as he had hair, he 
powdered it; then he used to powder his bare 
crown, until this genteel appliance became obso¬ 
lete. There was always, on the cuff of his left 
sleeve, a row of pins, inserted with geometrical 
parallelism. When he talked, he was in the habit 
of whittling a stick, so that his track was often 
marked by little piles of shavings. His likeness 
was never taken, nor could it have been ; for when 
he was not talking, he did not look like himself. 


PLEASURES OF THE TABLE. 


149 


XXV. 

PLEASURES OF THE TABLE. 


“ Alas! how simple, to these cates compared, 

Was that crude apple that diverted Eve.” 

Milton. 

It is the grand endeavour of all philosophy 
and all religion to elevate the immortal part of 
man; to subdue and regulate that which he has in 
'common with the brute, and thus to refine and 
expand his nature. But there is a latent sensuality 
in our race which is perpetually thwarting this 
pious effort; and as there are no men without 
appetites, and few men without lusts, he who 
flatters that within us which is animal, gains a 
willing votary, and often beguiles us in spite of 
our reason. The fine arts, occupying a field 
intermediate between the region of sense and that 
of intellect, have on this very account been often 
prostituted. Painting, sculpture, and especially 
music, have pandered to the unworthy principle, 
and poetry and other kindred parts of literature 
have been made to do homage to sense. All this 
shows a sad inversion of human nature. It is not 
that we have senses, that we have appetites, that 
we have desires, that we have passions, but it is 
13 * 


150 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


that we serve them, that we are betrayed by them, 
that they become our idols. Eden, the dwelling 
of pure heaven-like creatures, was a garden of 
sense; its fruits were material, its sights and 
sounds addressed bodily organs ; its paths were 
trodden by creatures of flesh and blood. Let us 
not curse the harmless matter, or the indifferent 
sense; but let us fear their abuse, in the present 
decrepit condition of humanity. 

Drunkenness has had its poetry. Nay, start 
not—some of the most stirring effusions of the 
age have been written by men whose “ fine 
frenzy” was a sort of Dutch courage: Byron 
declared the true Hyppocrene to be gin and water. 
The festivities of the table have been accompanied 
with music and song, in all ages. Now I plead 
for the festivities, in every virtuous sense, and I 
plead for the song; but in the name of injured 
human nature I cry out against the intoxication. 
Look back to early ages, and you see Bacchus 
presiding over the poets. Anacreon was the 
darling glee-maker for the old wine-bibbers. Horace 
was little behind him among the Romans. In our 
day half the ballads remaining in our own language 
turn upon drinking and drunkenness; and many 
a noble traditionary air is linked to the devil’s 
own litany, as in Cauld Kale in Aberdeen: 

“For I maun hae my cogie, sirs, 

I canna want my cogie ; 

I wadna gie my three-girr’d cog 
For a’ the queans in Bogie.” 


PLEASURES OF THE TABLE. 


151 


In adapting new words to the Scots’ old melodies, 
it was scarcely to be expected that Robert Burns 
would so far preach above his practice as to sing 
of cold water; and some of Tom Moore’s most 
brilliant melodies have almost the scent of cham¬ 
pagne. All seem to have thought with the Roman, 
that a water-drinker could not be a poet. 

In other branches of elegant letters, men who 
should have felt the high calling to be the ministers 
of moderation and virtue, have in certain instances, 
even when they have not inculcated indulgence, 
spread the sensual table with such seductive 
sweets and garlands, as to wake the tendencies 
which they should have lulled. It would be hard 
to throw a glory around the extreme of inebriety: 
the incongruity of Christopher Sly in the bed of 
silk would startle one into ridicule. The poet’s 
wreath cannot be conveniently placed on him who 
is dead drunk. But to this last depth men are 
conducted through divers descents and landing- 
places ; and of those some which are near the sur¬ 
face, fall within the circle of flowers and breezes, 
the poet’s-land. Thus the wine-cup and the lyre 
have lain side by side for ages; but an evil demon 
has maintained the connexion ; and I would to 
God that at once and forever American youth 
might dissever in their thoughts all that is ingenuous 
and joyful from the paroxysms of vinous inspi¬ 
ration. 

Drinking, as a mere bodily act, is not more 
dignified than eating: yet we have no eating- 


152 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


songs. Though great events, such as a successful 
election, are solemnized by a dinner or a supper, 
yet some veil is thrown over the deglutition. We 
drink sentiments ; we never eat them. In adver¬ 
tisements precedent, and narratives subsequent, 
the orators and singers at these banquets are never 
presented to the reader’s imagination as pouring 
out eloquence or song through the interstices of 
venison or oysters, but over bumpers of costly 
wine. Yet both go to the same place; and the 
whole artifice is one of the tricks we put upon 
ourselves. Conscious that our souls are affronted 
by this prominency given to animal indulgence, 
we use all the poor means in our power to array 
these gross delights in the vesture of tasteful 
spirituality. Disguise the matter as we may, 
ornament as we may the table or the cup, it is of 
the earth, earthy. The soul spurns it. We do 
but fill and feed that which is presently to be a 
corpse and putrefaction. Do I cry out against 
this ? Not by any means; but I speak, for the 
soul, against the homage we are so busily paying 
to the body. God has graciously made our meat 
and our drink delightful; but it is we, who, like 
the Egyptians with their goat and their onion, 
have made them gods. We must fight against 
this usurpation. We must from our infancy keep 
under the body. He who would be a man, must 
treat his lower nature as a gigantic slave, who is 
always watching his chance to rise and be upper¬ 
most. 


PLEASURES OP THE TABLE. 


153 


There are some who pride themselves upon 
withholding from their lips every thing which can 
intoxicate, w r hile they indulge in all other plea¬ 
sures of the table ad libitum. This is a great 
mockery. The soul may be crushed with a load, 
as well as drowned with a flood. We have the 
statistics of the disease and death caused by drink¬ 
ing, but who will furnish that caused by eating? 
So far as the overt act is concerned, the latter is 
certainly the more brutal. As a conclusion to my 
outcry against animalism, I will state a case, which 
may serve to show that there is a nearer analogy 
than is usually suspected between the two sorts 
of excess; and which may further afford an exer¬ 
cise for the pens of certain modern authors who 
are fond of describing with Apician gusto the pro¬ 
gress of a feast. True, the sketch I shall offer 
relates to the Esquimaux; but still it will, for that 
very reason, best serve my purpose of exhibiting, 
without a mask, the devotee of sense; and I would 
not quote it, if it were less disgusting. “ We 
found,” says Capt. Lyon, in the account of his 
northern adventures, “ that the party which had 
been adrift had killed two large walruses, which 
they had carried home during the early part of the 
night. No one therefore came to the ships, all 
remaining in the huts to gormandize. We found 
the men lying under their deer-skins, and clouds 
of steam rising from their naked bodies. From 
Kooilittuk I learned a new Esquimaux luxury; 
he had eaten untilJie was drunk , and every mo- 


154 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


ment fell asleep with a flushed and burning face, 
and his mouth open. By his side sat Arnalooa, 
who was attending her cooking-pot, and at short 
intervals awakened her spouse, in order to cram 
as much as was possible of a large piece of half- 
boiled flesh into his mouth, with the assistance of 
her forefinger, and having filled it quite full, cut 
off the morsel close to his lips. This he slowly 
chewed, and as soon as a small vacancy became 
perceptible, this was filled by a lfimp of raw blub¬ 
ber. During this operation the happy man moved 
no part of him but his jaws, not even opening his 
eyes; but his extreme satisfaction was occasionally 
shown by a most expressive grunt, whenever he 
enjoyed sufficient room for the passage of sound. 
The drippings of the savoury repast had so plen¬ 
tifully covered his face and neck, that I had no 
hesitation in determining that a man may look 
more like a beast by over-eating than by drinking 
to excess.”* 


Capt. Lyon’s Private Journal, p. 182 . 


DRINKING AND DRUNKENNESS. 155 


XXVI. 

DRINKING AND DRUNKENNESS. 

“O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name 
to be known by, let us call thee—devil.” Othello. 

If an insane parent should be brought to the 
diabolical resolution of burning a child to death, 
it would not be necessary that he should violently 
thrust the infant into the flames. Only remove 
from the little creature all dread of the fire, give 
him free access within the fender to the blazing 
billets, and no long time would elapse before the 
ruin would be consummated. And precisely so, 
in regard to death and destruction by strong drink. 
The parent need not drench his son with a mortal 
dose of alcohol; nay, he need not force him to be 
even once drunk. All that is necessary is that he 
should bring him up to absolute carelessness as to 
the danger of strong drink, allow him license in 
tasting it, and set him the example of indulgence. 
Alas! for one that is literally burned alive, there 
are a hundred destroyed by the liquid fire. 

I should not deem myself pardonable, if I were 
to omit this topic in addressing young men, espe¬ 
cially those of the industrious class; and although 
some of the crusades in favour of the virtue of 


156 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


temperance have been conducted with fanatical 
heats, and a contempt for all evidence and every 
rule of reasoning, I cannot think that any friend 
of his race is thereby excused from the duty of 
employing every means to secure our rising popu¬ 
lation from so intense a curse as that of drunken¬ 
ness. And when I speak of drunkenness, my 
metaphysics will not help me to take a distinction 
between getting drunk on gin and getting drunk 
on cider. In the present state of the vintner’s 
business, the difference between a brandy-sot and 
a wine-sot, is just this; the one drinks brandy 
and water; the other drinks brandy and wine. 
It is drunkenness , and its provocatives, against 
which I would raise the alarm. The direct and 
undeniable arguments against this vice are so 
numerous and overwhelming, that I feel no neces¬ 
sity for rushing into the ludicrous paradoxes, 
exaggerated statistics, and profane wresting of holy 
writ, which have become a part of the regular 
agitation in this matter. Therefore I have never 
sought to prove that the wine of the Scriptures 
was not inebriating, or that alcohol, in its smallest 
portion, is concrete iniquity. But with the incon¬ 
trovertible reasons occurring in every day’s walk, 
I would urge on my young countrymen to abhor 
the cup of temptation. The sight of one slavering 
drunkard is enough; it contains an encyclopedia 
of arguments against any indulgence in strong 
liquors. I am amazed that, as one man, our youth 
do not arise in their strength, and swear to exter- 


DRINKING AND DRUNKENNESS. 157 

minate this dragon. I am amazed that a single 
young man, so long as there remains a drunkard 
in the land, should hesitate to save himself from 
the reach of the monster’s fang. And most of all 
am I amazed that there should be a single being, 
not confessedly a coward and hypocrite, who can 
be deterred by the sneers of corrupt comrades from 
adopting a line of conduct which his reason and 
his conscience imperatively prescribe. 

If we can raise up a generation of sturdy fellows 
who have never tasted the evil spirit, we shall 
insure to the country, at a later day, a tribe of 
hale aged men, every one of whom may say with 
old Adam— 

“ Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty: 

For in my youth I never did apply 
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood; 

Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo 
The means of weakness and debility; 

Therefore my age is as a lusty Winter, 

Frosty but kindly.”* 

And our descendants will look back on the 
annals of intoxication with as much incredulity or 
detestation, as that with which we ourselves con¬ 
template the gladiatorial shows, or the orgies of 
the cannibal. 

The attraction which has brought me to this 
subject is certainly not its novelty, but its import¬ 
ance ; and I must even run the risk of repeating 


As You Like It. 

14 


158 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


things which have been uttered at a hundred Tem¬ 
perance meetings ; these pages may, however, be 
read by some who do not frequent such assem¬ 
blies. To the young man whose eye is upon 
this page, I would therefore say, do for yourself 
what the Spartans used to do for their children; 
summon before you some beastly impersonation 
of the vice, in order that it may forever seize 
your imagination and your heart. Call before 
your mind’s eye a group of the worst drunkards 
within your knowledge. Fancy the whole dozen 
to be before you—as, for instance, on the bench 
or settee of some gin or beer shop. Behold the 
maudlin tears, the drivel, the lack-lustre eye, the 
hiccough, the belch, the vomit, (shame on vice 
which makes indecency indispensable to truth,) 
the stagger, the stammer, the idiotism! Behold 
decrepitude in youth, and contempt in hoary hairs! 
Add to the scene the wives they have murdered, 
and the sons who have died of drink before their 
eyes—and then-—while your “gorge rises” at the 
spectacle,—fix in your soul this one truth— There 
is not one of these demoniacs who was not once 
as pare and as fearless as yourself. 

There is something so nauseous in the extreme 
symptoms of this disease, that it might be proper 
to cast a veil over them, if it were not that Provi¬ 
dence has made them odious in order to alarm our 
fears. We ought therefore to take a fair look upon 
the stagnant pool of abominations in which those 
wallow who tamper with this indulgence. In the 


DRINKING AND DRUNKENNESS. 159 

approach, Intemperance shows a gay and pleasing 
face: her complexion is ruddy, her wreathed smiles 
are soft and melting; she sings and dances, as she 
offers “the sweet poison of misused wine.” She 
leads the social levy, and steals the mask of friend¬ 
ship, of liberality, and of patriotism. She proffers 
her assistance at every festival. It is this aspect 
of the Circe which allures and misleads. It is 
only after the seduction has been completed—after 
the curtain has been dropped—in the recesses of 
her private chamber, that the horrid truth is dis¬ 
played. There it is the victim finds that her eye is 
a red fountain of rheums, her breath putrescence, 
her visage livid and bloated, her tongue ribald, 
and her frame a mass of ulcerous corruption. 

Faugh! “ Give me an ounce of civet, good 
apothecary, to sweeten my imagination !” You 
may well exclaim thus; but the more you are dis¬ 
gusted, the more just is your impression; and the 
vile emblem is faint when placed by the viler 
reality. Seeing then that the cup of wine leads 
to such issues, and that the merely temporal results 
of drinking are thusdoathsome, let me beg you to 
abjure all those sportive and therefore palliative 
expressions which are often employed to describe 
a condition which is in wretchedness and degrada¬ 
tion below nothing on this side of hell. We have 
many merry tropes by which to point out that a 
man has made himself a fool or a maniac. The 
Arabs are said to have near a hundred names for 
a lion. We have almost as many for a man in 


160 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


liquor. But in proportion as we laugh, we fail to 
abhor. The boy who jeers a street-drunkard, has 
his natural horror merged in a mere sense of the 
ludicrous. Let this be examined, and it will, if I 
err not, lead to a principle which has been too 
much neglected. Abandon at once and for life 
the use as a beverage , either habitually or occa¬ 
sionally, of every liquid which can intoxicate. 
With a soul filled with detestation of this chief of 
the Furies, free yourself from her solicitations. 


THE WORKING-MAN’S HEALTH. 161 


XXVII. 

THE WORKING-MAN’S HEALTH. 

“ Know, then, whatever cheerful and serene 
Supports the mind, supports the body too. 

Our greatest good, and what we least can spare, 

Is Hope: the last of all our evils, Fear.” 

Armstrong. 

In a late visit I had the pleasure of meeting my 
two good friends, uncle Benjamin and the school¬ 
master, quietly seated under the shade of a spread¬ 
ing buttonwood tree. Upon my making some 
little complaints about my ill health, uncle Benja¬ 
min interrupted me with “Pshaw! man ! beware 
of becoming a grumbler. I have known a man 
whose everlasting reply was Not well , while he 
ate well, slept well, and looked as if,he could 
have knocked down a beef.” 

“ Some men,” said the schoolmaster, quoting 
Cowper,— 

“ Some men employ their health, an ugly trick, 

In making known how oft they have been sick, 

And give us, in recitals of disease, 

A doctor’s trouble, but without the fees ; 

Relate how many weeks they kept their bed, 

How an emetic or cathartic sped; 

Nothing is slightly touch’d, much less forgot, 

Nose, ears, and eyes seem present on the spot.” 

14 * 


162 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


“ Just so,” rejoined uncle Benjamin : “ ailing 
folks should live in hospitals; at any rate they 
should remember that other people are not so 
deeply interested in their disorders. In a long 
life I have always observed, that there is no greater 
difference between an ill-bred and a well-bred man, 
than that the latter keeps his little troubles to him¬ 
self. It is a shame for active mechanics to become 
complainers; even if they are amiss, brooding 
only makes matters worse. What says the pro¬ 
verb ? the three best doctors are Dr. Diet, Dr. 
Quiet, and Dr. Merryman. What says the Bible 1 
A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”* 

“ That reminds me,” said Appletree, “of what 
is said of the famous Dr. Nichols, that whatever 
a man’s distemper might be, he would not attend 
him, as a physician, if his mind was not at ease; 
for he believed that no medicines would have any 
influence. And I dare say you have read the 
twenty-fifth number of the Spectator, where Addi¬ 
son says, ‘ the fear of death often proves mortal,* 
and that many more thousands are killed in a flight 
than in a battle, and that it is impossible that we 
should take delight in any thing that we are every 
moment afraid of losing.” 

“ There is too much talk,” said uncle Benjamin, 
“ about health as a separate concern. If men are 
temperate, regular, active, cheerful, and cleanly, 
they will generally be well. If not, let them 
bewail their mishaps, not before their friends, but 
* Prov. xvii. 22. 


THE WORKING-MAN’S HEALTH. 163 

their doctor. But what with bran-bread and vege¬ 
table diet, and what with lectures and tracts upon 
health, hundreds are put in the way of becoming 
symptom-hunters, then hypochondriacs, and then 
real invalids. None but a fool will go to fingering 
the nice works of a watch; yet any one feels free 
to tinker with his constitution. First whims, then 
experiments, ruin the strength.” 

“ Even learned men,” said the schoolmaster, 
“ have fallen victims to this folly. Dr. Stark, an 
eminent physician of the last century, experi¬ 
mented on diet until his life ended in February, 
1770. On the 24th of the preceding June he 
began with bread and water. On the 26th of 
July he changed this for bread, water, and sugar. 
Then came bread, water, and olive oil. On the 
8th of September he was so weak that he almost 
fainted in walking across the room. The last 
mess but one was a diet of bread or flour with 
honey, and an infusion of tea or of rosemary. 
He died on the 23d of February. Bathing, which 
is one of the best things in the world, may be 
carried to excess. Men of one idea are fond of 
recommending their own notions to every one: 
but Dr. Currie closes the account of one of his 
experiments in cold bathing with the remark, that 
the chief thing he learned from it was, that it was 
not rashly to be repeated.” 

“Efight, right,” exclaimed uncle Benjamin; 
“ ‘ God never made his work for man to mend.* 
The really robust and long-lived men in all nations 


164 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


have always been those who have had no whimsies. 
They have been temperate, and cleanly, and good- 
natured, and brisk, but they have kept no lenten 
days, nor proscribed any of the ordinary articles 
of diet. Good roast beef, with tea, coffee, and 
garden stuffs, has not shortened their days.* 
And I believe after all it is quantity rather' than 
quality which hurts us. Let a man be forever 
asking himself, Will this hurt? or, Will that hurt? 
and he will soon arrive at the point at which every 
thing will hurt.” 

“ Exactly so,” said the schoolmaster. “ When 
Dr. Johnson’s friend Taylor happened to say that 
he was afraid of emetics, for fear of breaking some 
small vessels, ‘ Poh!’ said Johnson, ‘ if you have 
so many things that will break, you had better 
break your neck at once, and there’s an end on’t. 
You will break no small vessels !’ And then, 
says Boswell, he puffed and blowed with high 
derision.” 

The real diseases of working-men deserve to 
be considered with all possible aid from science. 
Let their causes 'and frequency be noted and re- 

* “Mr. Wesley,” says Dr. Southey, “ believed that the use 
of tea made his hand shake so before he was twenty years 
old, that he could hardly write. He published an essay 
against tea-drinking, and left off during twelve years: then, 
‘ at the close of a consumption,’ by Dr. Fothergill’s directions, 
he used it again, and probably learned how much he had 
been mistaken in attributing ill effects to so refreshing and 
innocent a beverage.” 


THE WORKING-MAN’S HEALTH. 165 

ported. Where prevention is possible, let them 
be prevented; where cure is possible, let them 
be cured; but let them not weigh like a night¬ 
mare on those who are well. The statistics of 
disease in England go to show that “ one hundred 
of the efficient male population of the country are 
not liable to more than twenty-five severe attacks 
of disease in the year. Each man is liable to a 
protracted disease, disabling him from work, every 
four years: this forms one great section of the 
sickness of the country, but it does not include 
accidents from fighting and drunkenness, or the 
many ailments which make men apply for me¬ 
dical advice while they carry on their occupa¬ 
tion, comprising, perhaps, as many more cases 
of a slighter character, which raise to fifty per 
cent, the proportion of the population attacked 
annually.”* 

Some of our working-men of the active trades 
lose their health by over-eating and over-working: 
of course I leave out the drinking men, who can 
seldom have sound insides. Extreme exertion 
wears out multitudes in all trades where great 
bodily power is required. The coal-heavers of 
London, healthy as they look, are but a short¬ 
lived people. The heavy loads which they carry 
and the liquor which they drink carry them off 
rapidly. Before the introduction of the power- 
press, a large proportion of the pressmen who 

* Statistical Account of the British Empire; Article by 
Dr. Farr. 


166 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


were accustomed to print large newspapers, by 
hand, were affected with a particular disease, 
which is the result of an unequal action on the 
muscles. In the sedentary trades, the danger is 
from constrained position, bad air, want of ex^- 
ercise, and want of water. An hour every day 
in the garden or wood-yard, and a daily sponging 
of the whole body, together with temperance, 
cheerful evening visits, and good music, would 
put blood into the veins of many a limber tailor 
and swarthy shoemaker. 





i’*_ .. •' 

.-••• • '-‘V . . •; - • r • 

— " V ■ 



V t 











BATHS, AND CLEANLINESS. 


167 


. XXVIII. 

BATHS, AND CLEANLINESS. 

“ ’Tis this adorns the rich; 

The want of this is poverty’s worst wo; 

With this external virtue, age maintains 
A decent grace; without it, youth and charms 
Are loathsome.” Armstrong 

There is nothing in which the domestic eco¬ 
nomy of the moderns, more differs from that of 
the ancients, than in the article of Baths. The 
allusions of the Bible to this practice are familiar 
to us all. The Egyptians, the Greeks, and the 
Romans agreed in making it a part of their daily 
routine. The public baths of the Romans were 
magnificent structures. Those of Caracalla were 
adorned with two hundred pillars, and furnished 
with sixteen hundred seats of marble; on which 
three thousand persons could be accommodated at 
once. Those of Dioclesian were still more sump¬ 
tuous. Alexander Severus, to gratify the passion 
for bathing, ordered the warm baths to be opened 
by break of day, and also supplied the lamps with 
oil. Thus the bath became a universal luxury, 
until there were some so devoted to the enjoyment 
as to use it four, five, and even eight times a day. 


168 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


In modern Europe, though bathing is not so 
highly prized as it was among the ancients, it is 
regarded as far more necessary to health and com¬ 
fort than among ourselves. Indeed the neglect of 
thorough ablution is not unlikely to become a na¬ 
tional reproach. A British traveller says, and not 
without some appearance of truth, that “ the prac¬ 
tice of travellers’ washing at the door or in the 
porticoes, or at the wells of taverns and hotels, 
once a day, is most prejudicial to health ; the ablu¬ 
tion of the body, which ought never to be neglect¬ 
ed, at least twice a day , in a hot climate, being 
altogether inconsistent with it. In fact,” he adds, 
“ I have found it more difficult, in travelling in the 
United States, to procure a liberal supply of water 
at all times of the day and night in my bedcham¬ 
ber than to obtain any other necessary. A supply 
for washing the hands and face once a day seems 
all that is thought requisite.”* Though the tra¬ 
veller’s censure applies with its full force to some 
parts of his own country, we may take a useful 
hint, and amend our ways. 

The two great considerations which recommend 
the bath are its influence, first, on cleanliness, and, 
next, on health ; and the latter is in a great degree 
dependent on the former. “ Cleanliness,” as John 
Wesley is reported to have said, “ is the next 
thing to godliness;” and such is the connexion 
between outward and inward purity, that, in all 


Stuart’s Three Years in America, vol. ii. p. 440. 


BATHS, AND CLEANLINESS. 169 

religions, the one has been the symbol of the 
other. Of course, those who w ork hard and per¬ 
spire copiously, have more need of care in this 
particular than others. To the artisan, therefore, 
the bath is a double advantage, a double luxury. 
*11 trades, however, are not alike. -There are 
some in which the operative cannot pretend to be 
clean, while he is actually employed; to attempt 
it would be affectation ; but there is the more rea¬ 
son why he should enjoy the feeling of perfect 
cleanliness when work is over. The watchmaker 
or the trimmer may be almost as neat as a lady; 
but there are none who are entirely exempt from 
the need of water. Some there are who are 
scarcely aware of the extent to which their skin 
has become clogged by the successive perspira¬ 
tions and depositions of years. They might form 
some idea of the fact if they should scrape the sur¬ 
face with a dull knife, by which the accumulated 
outer skin would come off in a scurf of branny 
powder. It is too common with certain persons, 
to wash only for the public, and to cleanse only 
what is visible. 

If we were brought up in proper notions on this 
subject, and knew when we were comfortable, 
we should feel as much necessity for water to our 
bodies as to our faces ; and a bathing-house, or at 
least a bathing-tub, would be as indispensable as 
a wash-basin. An eminent German physician, 
Hufeland, tells us, that “every Sunday evening 
people formerly went in procession through the 
15 


170 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


streets, beating on basins, to remind the labourers 
of bathing; and the tradesman, who laboured at 
dirty work, washed off, in the bath, that dirt, 
which now adheres to him during a long life.” 
Only he who has made the experiment can know 
how delicious is the feeling produced by a tho¬ 
rough warm ablution, after a day of heat and exer¬ 
tion. “ To wash one’s self,” says one of our 
own eminent medical authorities, “ ought to have 
a much more extended meanyig than people gene¬ 
rally attach to the words. It should not consist 
merely in washing the hands, and rubbing a wet 
towel over the face, and sometimes the neck ; the 
ablution ought to extend over the entire surface, 
and it is particularly necessary where often least 
thought of, as at the bends of the limbs, &c. In 
a tepid bath, with the aid of a little soap and a 
"sponge, or brush, the process may be completely 
performed—with a feeling of comfort at the mo¬ 
ment, and of much pleasure afterwards.”* 

If bathing affords so much comfort, it conduces 
not less to health. No man can be in health 
whose skin is out of order. This is beginning 
to be acknowledged by all who think and write 
upon the human system. It is the skin which is 
the seat of perspiration, of which about thirty- 
three ounces pass through every twenty-four 
hours; even when there is no visible moisture 

* Dr. John Bell, on Baths and Mineral Waters; a learned 
and judicious work, to which I am indebted for most that 
is valuable in this essay. 


BATHS AND CLEANLINESS. 


171 


on the surface. The skin is the regulator of ani¬ 
mal heat; it is a great absorbent, and takes in 
again much of the corrupt matter left in contact 
with it by want of cleanliness. It is in close con¬ 
nexion with almost every important function of 
the system. A glance at these facts will show 
that it requires daily attention. But some will be 
surprised to learn further, that this wonderful 
covering has other no less important offices. It 
not only lets out liquid, but it takes in airs, as 
well as watery vapour: so that it may almost be 
said to play the part of the lungs, by secreting and 
absorbing the same gases. In some animals, in¬ 
deed, as in the leech, all the breathing is done by 
the skin, and you may kill a frog as effectually by 
varnishing him all over, as by tearing out his 
lungs. The filthy covering of an unwashed per¬ 
son is not unlike such a varnish, and he who 
never bathes labours under a sort of half-suffoca¬ 
tion. The f outer scurf which we may scrape 
away is a deposition from the true or inner skin. 
A good washing and rubbing softens this outer 
skin, and makes it easy to rub off the dead parts 
with a brush or hard towel. In this respect, all 
baths, of whatever temperature, are useful. The 
surface is cleansed and freed from obstructions, 
and a way is cleared for the passage of the proper 
fluids and gases. On a subject so important, I 
trust these little details will not be thought either 
dry or unnecessary. 

The cold bath is the most natural, and the most 


172 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


easily taken, but it is not always proper or safe. 
There are some I know who recommend it indis¬ 
criminately to all persons, at all seasons; but 
such is not the counsel of wise physicians. “ In 
proportion,” says Dr. Combe, “ as cold bathing 
is influential in the restoration of health when 
judiciously used, it is hurtful when resorted to 
without discrimination.” “ Many persons,” says 
Dr. Bell, “ in even vigorous health, cannot tolerate 
the cold bath for the shortest period, still less can 
they habitually use it with benefit. Even they 
who have accustomed themselves to it are in dan¬ 
ger from the practice, if it be continued after any 
sudden diminution of vital energy, by whatever 
cause produced.” The same learned author re¬ 
jects the vulgar notion that cold bathing is either 
a tonic or a stimulant, and teaches us, that what 
some are pleased to consider a reaction after the 
application of cold, is no such thing, and that the 
skin is not actually warmer at this time than 
before. He therefore comes to the same conclu¬ 
sion with the great ancient Galen, that the cold 
bath is proper for persons in perfect health, and 
for fleshy ones, for the temperate and those who 
use due exercise ; that the proper season for it is 
summer, and that one must be gradually accus¬ 
tomed to it. But neither he nor the most timid 
adviser would debar the manly swimmer from 
plunging into the stream, or still better from indulg¬ 
ing in that exquisite refreshment, the dash of the 
surf upon the sea-shore. 


BATHS AND CLEANLINESS. 173 

Both the eminent physicians whom I have 
quoted recommend for habitual use the tepid or 
warm bath. A temperature ranging from 85° to 
98° is named by Dr. Combe. The best rule is 
to avoid the positive impressions, either of heat or 
cold. The effect is at once tranquillizing and 
invigorating, in a high degree. Nothing can savour 
more of ignorance, or be less agreeable to expe¬ 
rience, than the notion of some, that the warm bath 
is enfeebling. From the earliest ages it has been 
the restorative of the exhausted traveller, and the 
writer of these lines can never forget its magical 
effect after a wearisome journey of some hundreds 
of miles. Darwin reminds us, that the words 
relaxing and bracing , which are generally used 
in relation to warm and cold baths, are mechani¬ 
cal terms, properly applied to drums or strings ; 
but are only metaphors, when applied to this sub¬ 
ject. After a long day’s work the warm bath is a 
thousand-fold better than strong liquors. Bruce, 
in his travels in Abyssinia, tells us, that when he 
felt an intolerable inward heat, and was so exhaust¬ 
ed as to be ready to faint, he was made as fresh 
and strong by a warm bath, as on his rising in the 
morning. “ Some persons may tell me,” says he, 
“ that the heat of the bath must weaken and ener¬ 
vate, but I can assure them that the reverse is the 
case.” Our celebrated countryman, Count Rum- 
ford, once repaired to Harrowgate, in a feeble 
state of health. Such was his fear of taking cold 
from the warm bath, that he used it only once in 
15* 


174 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


three days, for less than fifteen minutes, and 
always went from it to a warm bed. Finding 
this unprofitable, he reversed his method, and 
bathed every day, at two o’clock, for half an hour, 
at 96° and 97° of Fahrenheit, for thirty-five days 
together. “The salutary effects of this experi¬ 
ment,” he adds, “ were perfectly evident to all 
those who were present, and saw the progress of 
it; and the advantages I received from it have 
been permanent. The good state of health which 
I have since enjoyed, I attribute to it entirely.” 
The same philosopher exposes the mistake of 
those who avoid the warm bath for fear of catch¬ 
ing cold ; as, indeed, one has no more occasion to 
dread catching cold after having been in a warm 
bath, than from going out of doors into the air of 
a frosty morning. “ There are few,” says Dr. 
Combe, “ who do not derive evident advantage 
from the regular use of the tepid bath, and still 
fewer who are hurt by it.” 

It is one of the great advantages of a residence 
in the city of Philadelphia, that there is not only 
an abundant supply of water, but that all the 
better class of houses are provided with bathing- 
rooms, in which either cold or warm baths may 
be taken. And even those who are without these 
conveniences, may have easy access to public 
baths. Or, in the worst imaginable case, a tub 
of warm water, a piece of soap, a sponge, and a 
hard towel may be found in the house of any man 
who wishes to cleanse his person. 


INTEMPERANCE AND DISEASE. 175 


XXIX. 

INTEMPERANCE AND DISEASE. 


“ Were it a draught for Juno when she banquets, 

I would not taste thy treasonous offer; none 
But such as are good men can give good things. 

And that which is not good, is not delicious 
To a well-governed and wise appetite.” 

Milton. 

In looking over a book upon the effects of 
different trades upon health and long life,* I was 
struck with the repeated statement that such and 
such occupations would be less unhealthy, if it 
were not for the liquor drunk by the workmen. 
This, thought I, is very unfair: why blame the 
trade, when the fault all lies in the drink ? We 
may lay it down as a principle, that of honest 
employments, there is not one in fifty which is 
hurtful to the health of a temperate and prudent 
man ; but if men will still be mad enough to 
guzzle beer or whisky, they may destroy them- 

* The Effects of the Principal Arts, Trades, and Profes¬ 
sions, and of civic states and habits of living, on Health and 
Longevity : &c. &c. by C. Turner Tbackrah. Philadelphia, 
1831. 


176 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


selves amidst the most wholesome circumstances 
in the world. 

The book I spoke of, though small in size, con¬ 
tains much information on this important subject. 
Let me advert to some instances of the kind men¬ 
tioned above. Of coachmen and other drivers, 
Mr. Thackrah says that their exposure to the 
weather is thought to produce rheumatism and in¬ 
flammation of the lungs. “ I conceive, however,” 
he adds, “that these diseases would rarely occur 
to abstemious men. It is intemperance which 
gives the susceptibility to such maladies ; and it 
is intemperance which produces much greater.” 
And here he speaks of morning-sickness ; disease 
of the stomach and head ; apoplexy and palsy. 
In regard to another trade, he says: “Though 
temperate millwrights are healthy, and continue 
their employ to a great age, often even to that of 
sixty, there is another class, who fit up the shafts 
and wheels, to convey the power from the steam- 
engine to the machinery, and who suffer from 
their debauched habit of life. These men earn 
high wages ; take much of that pernicious com¬ 
pound called ale, and sometimes even drams in 
addition, and are moreover off work at the pot¬ 
house two or three days in the week. Such men, 
of course, are unhealthy and short-lived.” These 
remarks may be applied to many classes' of ope¬ 
ratives in America, who receive high wages, and 
are not required to keep hours. For there is 
nothing more conducive to health and good habits 


INTEMPERANCE AND DISEASE. 177 

than for a man to have such employment and such 
pay as shall make it necessary for him to be mo¬ 
derately engaged every day. 

A master pocketbook-maker informed our au¬ 
thor that several of his people had died from 
consumption. “ This, however,” says he, “ I 
should attribute not to the employ, but to intem¬ 
perance.” When blacksmiths are ill, “ the cause 
is most frequently intemperance.” Of hatters, he 
tells us, “ they are often intemperate and short¬ 
lived.” And of brewers, who are commonly re¬ 
garded as patterns of portly strength, Mr. Thackrah 
observes : “As a body, they are far from healthy. 
Under a robust and often florid appearance, they 
conceal chronic disorders of the abdomen, particu¬ 
larly a congested (overfull) state of the venous 
system. When these men are accidentally hurt 
or wounded, they are more liable than other indi¬ 
viduals to severe and dangerous effects. The 
ill-health of brewers is, however, evidently 
attributable to their habitual and unnecessary 
potation of beer.” 

After such statements as these, we need not be 
surprised when this judicious medical man comes 
to the conclusion, that intemperance is the grand 
bane of civilized life. These observations were 
made nearly twenty years ago in the populous 
town of Leeds, and are therefore introduced here 
in preference to still stronger statements more 
near to us in time and place ; as it is common to 
suspect the latter as coloured by zeal for a popular 


178 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


enterprise. In regard to mere health, then, it ap¬ 
pears, that intoxicating drinks are unnecessary and 
noxious. To him who uses them, no circum¬ 
stances can ensure health : to him who abstains, 
even great exposure is usually harmless. The 
first rule of health to be inculcated on our 
children, apprentices, and families, is to live 
without drink. 

Here is work for masters and employers. 
Surely they have an accountability in this matter 
to God and to man. The apprentice and even 
the journeyman are, and ever ought to be under 
some control; and the more fully the master 
sustains to them the part of a father, the greater 
will this control be. It will be an evil day for 
our land when either party shall feel that this 
bond is loosed. Let the household links be 
broken, and the political chain will have no binding 
force. If we wish such a reformation as shall 
make and keep our rising race virtuous and happy, 
we must begin at home, and masters must take 
some steps which are now unpopular. The vices 
of journeymen fall, with part of their burden, on 
master-workmen. As Mr. Thackrah very justly 
says, the latter may do much to lessen, this great 
evil of intemperance. Does any one ask what 
can the master do ? I reply, he can bring up his 
boys in good principles. He can press upon them 
the precepts of the Bible. He can correct their 
youthful errors. He can set them an example of 
rigid temperance. He can see that they spend 


INTEMPERANCE AND DISEASE. 179 

their evenings and their Sundays at home, in 
reading, or in some useful amusements. He can 
open facilities for them to enjoy the advantages 
of night-schools, libraries, Sunday-schools, Bible- 
classes, and lyceums. Is it asked what can he 
do for journeymen ? I reply, some of these 
same things ; for a man’s being a journeyman does 
not put him beyond the reach of good advice or 
good example. But, over and above this, I adopt 
our author’s language : “ Let the master discharge 
from his employ every man who ‘ breaks work;’ 
nay, let him admonish, and afterwards discharge 
every man who spends his evenings at the ale¬ 
house, or calls at the dram-shop. This is, in 
fact, the great point: for the evil is curable at the 
beginning.” I anticipate what will be said about 
the difference between the state of things here and 
in the old country ; about the independence of opera¬ 
tives, and the scarcity of skilled labour. Never¬ 
theless every employer, who has patronage, is 
responsible to society and to God for the manner 
in which he employs it. He may not lord it over 
his men, but he has a right to know how and 
where they spend their evenings ; for the plain 
reason that his own interests are involved in it. 
The inquiry is not always agreeable ; nay, it will 
often give great offence ; but what then ? Is the 
truly benevolent man to do nothing which is dis¬ 
agreeable ? Of a truth, we are not so delicate in 
the collection of a debt, or the prosecution of a 
claim. These lions are chiefly in the way of our 


180 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


benevolent efforts. Until the law of the land shall 
render us more effectual aid, by erecting dykes 
against this flood of evil, every good man will do 
what he can to keep it out of his own doors. 

The place where health, fortune, character, and 
happiness are lost, is the tavern. In their origin, 
public houses were places for the entertainment of 
the weary traveller; no object could be more be¬ 
nevolent. But they have become, by the change 
of times, chiefly remarkable as dens of drunken¬ 
ness. Take away the bar, and in most cases you 
take away the publican’s livelihood. But even 
now, if taverns were frequented chiefly by way¬ 
faring-men, it were well. But, far from this, they 
are sources of temptation and ruin to the neigh¬ 
bourhood. Where must you go to find the black¬ 
leg, the drunkard, and the bully ? To the tavern. 
Where is the young man who is never in his own 
shop, and whose shabby coat and anxious eye 
betoken debt and danger ? In the tavern. Where 
were the journeymen and apprentices last night, 
who are this morning haggard and sallow, yawn¬ 
ing and hiccuping over their work ? At the 
tavern. I must in justice say, that I know inn¬ 
keepers who are temperate, orderly men, and 
good citizens, and who deplore this state of things; 
and I know houses to which these remarks do not 
apply; but in the greater number of cases, the 
bar-room is the way to destruction; and to say 
that a man is often seen hanging about the tavern 
porch, under whatever pretence of business, is to 


INTEMPERANCE AND DISEASE. 181 

say that his work is neglected, his habits declining, 
and his company detestable. 

In these and similar observations, I purposely 
avoid all mention of Temperance societies and 
their pledges, not because I am indifferent to the 
success of their endeavours, but because I wish 
to reach even those who do not admit the prin¬ 
ciple of these associations in its full extent. The 
sentiments which are here expressed, have been 
entertained by thoughtful men for scores of years; 
nor do I see how they can be rejected by any one 
who loves his country. Some of the happiest 
changes I have ever known have been wrought in 
men who have escaped the snare of strong drink. 
Such a one is Phelps the coach-painter. Time 
was when he thought his paint would kill him 
outright, but for his brandy; and he could not 
conceive how he could be merry with a couple of 
friends, except over a bottle. He sang a good 
song, and, being a musician, used to be the life of 
the tavern suppers. Some of his bacchanal 
staves may still be heard at midnight by those 
who pass by the Bull’s Head. Phelps had been 
well schooled, and sometimes wrote verses. But 
his eyes became weak, and his nose red, and the 
palette began to shake on his thumb. This did 
not arouse him, until his only son Ned was 
brought home drunk. He had fondly imagined 
that the boy had never seen him drink : it is the 
follv of many a parent, who rears a household of 
drunkards. That night Phelps broke every bottle 
18 


182 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


in his cellar. Last week I dined with him, and 
he sang me the following verses of his own 
making, over a goblet of excellent lemonade. 

When the glass sparkles, and the group 
Of wassail gathers there; 

Though friends invite, though spirits droop, 

’Tis Wisdom cries, Beware ! 

Be it the juice of tortured grain 
Which foaming tankards bear, 

Or distillation of sweet-cane, 

’Tis perilous— Beware ! 

Or should ripe clusters pour a flood 
Whose varying hues compare 

With gems, or Tyrian dye, or blood, 

’Tis wine that mocks— Beware ! 

But doubly fly that fiery stream, 

Forced by perverted care. 

Through tortuous pipe, in pungent steam; 

Those drops are death— Beware ! 

Howe’er the Tempter drug his bowl, 

Or mix his potions fair, 

Why shouldst thou jeopard thus thy soul 1 
Madness is near— Beware ! 



MONEY. 


183 


XXX. 

. MONEY. 

“ Yet to be just to these poor men of pelf, 

Each does but hate his neighbour as himself: 

Damn’d to the mines, an equal fate betides 
The slave that digs it, and the slave that hides.” 

Pope. 

• 

The good and the evil of money are the subject 
of our daily conversation, and neither can well be 
represented as greater than it is. The same book 
of wisdom which declares to us that “ money an- 
swereth all things,” warns us that the love of it is 
a “ root of all evil.” We love what costs us 
pains ; our own work, or the fruit of it; our own 
little garden rather than our neighbour’s hot-house. 
It is, therefore, constantly observed that it is hard 
to wring money out of the hands of one who has 
earned it by little and little. Look at the farmer; 
even if he owns thousands of acres, he is some¬ 
times startled at a call for the disbursement of 
twenty dollars: while the merchant, who gains 
and loses by fifties and hundreds, will transfer ten 
thousand dollars’ worth of stock in five minutes. 
Women, who seldom—-dear creatures—have the 
handling of large sums, are more frugal in the 
disposition of their means, than their more hard- 


184 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


hearted husbands. Hence the great moralist avers 
that mendicants seldom beg of women. How¬ 
ever this may be, it is undeniable that where 
money is hardly got, it is sure to be prized suffi¬ 
ciently. Let a man work hard for his dollar and 
he will be in danger of setting too high a value 
upon it; and thus, by imperceptible degrees, fru¬ 
gality grows into avarice and thrift into meanness. 

It is not the mere coin, the material gold, silver, 
copper, and alloy that we love; at least in the 
outset. The miser, who is a possessed man, may 
transfer his regards to the sign from the thing sig¬ 
nified, and gloat over dollars and doubloons ; but 
what the most love is what the money will bring. 
To use a large word, it is the potentiality of hap¬ 
piness. We turn every thing into money. We 
measure every thing by money. It is money 
which marks the injury done by a slander or a 
blow. As we measure the force of an engine by 
horse-power, so we measure an honourable office 
by dollars. Men value their lives at certain sums, 
and persons could be found who would be bribed 
to run the risk of being bit by a mad dog. In 
consequence of this universal applicability of 
money as the measure of value, it comes to stand 
for the things which it measures. We look with 
complacency on the key which unlocks our trea¬ 
sures ; and gaze on a dirty bank-note, which is 
only a rag. 

In Pitcairn’s island, at the latest accounts, there 
was no money, nor any need of it. But does it 


MONEY. 


185 


follow that there can be no avarice there ? I think 
not. The passion may look beyond the medium 
to the end in view, but it is still the same. The 
dislike to part with our cash, when reduced to its 
principles, is a mode of selfishness. It is only 
one aspect of our love of the things which money 
will buy. If any man would guaranty to us all 
these things for life, we would freely give him the 
money. Hence the moral evils of avarice. But 
for this the love of gold would be as innocent as 
the love of roses and lilies. 

But even on the selfish principle, I have some¬ 
times thought that a more refined and profound 
view of the matter would loosen our hold on the 
purse. By pinching hard we hurt nobody but 
ourselves. Every one sees that if a man spends 
none of his money, he is wretched; hencg the 
name miser , which is only the Latin for a wretch. 
But many make it the business of their lives to 
come as near this as they can. They sail as near 
the wind as is possible. Sound economy will teach 
a man that a liberal outlay of money is in some 
cases no more a loss, than a liberal sowing of 
wheat. Stolido has adopted the saving maxim 
never to cut the packthread of a parcel, but al¬ 
ways to untie it: he therefore fumbles at a hard 
knot for ten minutes, in which he could have 
earned the worth of ten such packthreads. Basso 
grudges sixpence for a dose of physic, and in the 
end loses six weeks. We all agree that time is 
money. Why so? Because time will procure 



186 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


us money, or, what is the same, money’s worth. 
But we are not so ready to admit, though it is 
equally true, that health is money—that temper¬ 
ance is money—that good habits are money— 
that character is money. Nay, I go further than 
this : if we must value every thing by this merce¬ 
nary standard, then I say, ease is money , because 
it is worth money, and we labour all our life to 
earn it. Comfort is money, and happiness is 
money. 

These remarks are certainly not intended to 
foster the disposition to estimate every thing by 
pounds, shillings, and pence. God forbid ! Our 
money-making nation needs no spur in their race: 
we are already pointed at by the finger of nations. 
But as the world’s ready reckoners insist on 
gauging human bliss by this rule, I wish to show 
that on their own principles a man maybe too 
saving. Even , the rule of the usurer in the old 
play,* which was short enough to be engraven on 
his ring, and which is engraven on many a heart, 
Tu tibi cura , “Take care of number one,” is 
often violated by unwise parsimony. We may be 
sparing to our damage. There are better things 
than money. O that I could ring it through every 
shop, factory, and counting-house of my country t 
There is good which gold cannot buy, and which 
to barter for gold were ruin. It cannot buy the 
kindly affections of the fireside. It cannot buy 

* The “ Groat’s Worth of Wit,” by Robert Green. 


MONEY. 


187 


the blessings of friendship. It cannot buy the 
serene comforts of virtue, the quiet of conscience, 
the joys of religion. This lesson should be in¬ 
culcated on the young. It is idle to fear that such 
a lesson will make them careless or profuse. It 
is a lesson opposed, not to frugality, but to parsi¬ 
mony. Those who learn it will not hoard, but 
neither will they squander. They will look on 
money, not as an ultimate good, but as the repre¬ 
sentative of purchasable advantages ; and they 
will count it as nothing when put in the opposite 
scale to moral and eternal things, which are above 
all price. 


188 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


XXXI. 

RISKS AND SPECULATIONS. 

“ Neither a borrower nor a lender be; 

For loan oft loses both itself and friend, 

And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.” 

Hamlet. 

Or all the ways of making money, that which 
belongs to a man’s proper trade or business is the 
safest, easiest, and most honest. He who would, 
even in a worldly sense, prosper, must let many 
gay chances of wealth flit before him, without 
drawing him from his daily work. This, how¬ 
ever, is very much against the spirit of the age. 
To become rich by sudden leaps is more attrac¬ 
tive than to plod on for years with scarcely per¬ 
ceptible gains. Yet the truly solid men are those 
who have pursued the latter course. It is not too 
much to say, that at the time of this present writ¬ 
ing, there are a thousand mechanics, manufacturers, 
and small tradesmen, who are trying to become 
rich by what they call speculation. Some, in a 
low sphere, deal in horses. Though this is not 
their trade, they are perpetually driving some 
bargain, or making some match, or showing off 
the paces of some famous roadster. It becomes 


RISKS AND SPECULATIONS. 189 

a passion, business is neglected ; and, so far 
as my observation goes, horse-dealers do not 
always maintain the purest character for straight¬ 
forward conduct. Some are, or were, very full 
of buying and selling lots about our growing 
towns and cities. Others are all for granite-quar¬ 
ries. While many behold visions of untold 
wealth in the silk business, and forsake their own 
calling, to plant acres of the Chinese mulberry. 
One in fifty of these draws a prize; the rest, 
after some months of suspense, sit down with 
blanks, and find their proper business near to ruin. 

These hopes commonly lead to expensive 
habits, unknown to the artisans of former days. 
Hence, my friend Mrs. Bates used often to re¬ 
mind her son Arthur of his father’s frugality. 
“ Dear mother,’’ cried Arthur, on one of these 
occasions, with a face of great vexation, “ pray, 
pray, don’t quote my good father any more. The 
next thing will be to rig me out in his white 
neckcloth and small-clothes.” 

“ Arthur,” said the old lady, with tears in her 
eyes, “ the image which has been before my mind 
for forty years, will sometimes be in your way; 
but bear with me, and I will not say any more 
about your father.” 

“ Say what you please,” said the relenting son. 

“ All I have to say is this : you know that your 
father was a thriving mechanic—he had no ambi¬ 
tion to be more—he became wealthy, as you 
might now have been, but for the rash adventure 


190 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


of your two uncles, in 1815, which swept away 
our property. When your father began life, how¬ 
ever, as you are now doing, he was frugal and 
domestic; he stuck to his trade; and after his 
great reverse, he returned to the habits of his 
youth. His maxim was, Waste nothing—risk 
nothing—borrow nothing.” 

“ Exactly, and had he lived to this day, he 
w r ould have felt, as I feel, the change of times, 
and would think as little of owing five hundred 
dollars, as he did of borrowing a pinch of 
snuff.” 

“ Arthur,” said the good old woman, smiling 
with the consciousness of experience, “ the 
maxims of economy do not change with the 
fashions. They go by the nature of things.” 

“ Surely, madam, money is not now what 
money was before the Revolution !” 

“ Perhaps not, in a certain sense; but, as the 
shopkeepers say, money is money. Bread, and 
clothes, and fuel, are not got for nothing. You 
talk of credit: credit implies borrowing; and 
borrowing implies paying. Creditors are made 
of no milder stuff than when I was a girl; and, 
for all that I can see, a cistern that is always run¬ 
ning and never receiving is as like to run dry as 
any cistern of the olden time. To be plain— 
what was the occasion of your haste in visiting 
New York, yesterday?” 

“ Then, to answer plainly, in my turn,—though 
I am sure you are going to misunderstand it,—it 


RISKS AND SPECULATIONS. 191 

V 

was to see several of my friends in William 
street.” 

“ Ah ! and why so anxious to see them at this, 
the busiest season of your trade ?” 

“ You press me—but I will be frank—it was to 
get a lift in the pecuniary way—common thing— 
to meet an arrangement—a mere trifle—a name 
or two was all 1 wanted—a-hem-— a little mat¬ 
ter in-” 

“ In bank, you would say, my son. Speak it out. 
I understand you. Now consider; what change 
has come over the plain old-fashioned business of 
coach-making, that you should need to be a bor¬ 
rower? Let an old woman tell your fortune— 
your intimacy with banks will end in your being 
a bankrupt.” 

With a blush and a sneer, Arthur went to his 
drying-room, then to his trimming-room, then to 
his counting-room, and then to the open air; but 
nowhere could he fix his attention. He had be¬ 
come a borrower. He kept his horses and his 
dogs, and gave dinners, and went to the springs. 
To meet this expense, he had several little specu¬ 
lations, added to his regular trade. Instead of 
straitening his expenses to suit his means, he 
plunged into new indulgences ; and to meet their 
cost, he drew upon future and unreal gains. In 
America, perhaps, more than elsewhere, it is very 
common to find mechanics, and even professional 
and salaried men, falling into embarrassments, to 
which formerly only mercantile adventurers were 





192 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


thought liable. How can a young man sit down 
at his desk, or examine his books, when every 
paper and almost every knock remind him that 
he is in debt ? Arthur Bates was oftener in the 
street than - in his shop; and every part of his 
proper business became distasteful to him. He 
was often seen in the humbling situation of a vex¬ 
atious supplicant at the doors of men who were 
far below him in every scale but that of dollars 
and cents. He who becomes a borrower cannot 
foretell at what point of the descent he will stop. 
From a custom it grows into a habit. The first 
plunge is the most revolting; after that, the 
smooth lapse becomes smoother with each suc¬ 
cessive yielding. 

Borrowing became so easy with Arthur, that 
he began to scribble on his waste papers the 
goodly proverbs, “ Nothing venture, nothing 
lose,” and “ In for a penny, in for a pound.” To 
one so diseased, no stimulant can be worse than a 
morning paper: it offers schemes of wealth on 
every page. These have a great charm for the 
man who feels that nothing but a grand “ opera¬ 
tion” can get him out of the slough, and who, at 
the same time, reads of thousands realized on lots 
at Brooklyn, Brighton, and Chicago, or by sales 
of granite or mulberries. True, these things have 
had their day ; but so will other things. In pro¬ 
cess of time, Arthur Bates removed from a 
thriving country town to the great metropolis. 
No one who knows the world will be surprised at 


RISKS AND SPECULATIONS. 193 

the change. It is not long since I could have 
named a round dozen of young men, attorneys, 
mechanics, and even doctors, who had closed 
their shops and offices, and gone into speculation. 
Arthur had entered the Alsatia of borrowing. 
After many fruitless attempts, he despaired of 
making his simple mother comprehend how a 
man may live and do well, without any regular 
business ; or how these rapid turns of the wheel 
differed from- gambling. He-descanted to her 
upon the credit system, the rise of property, the 
| diversities of script, and the fortunes made by 
happy investments. He unrolled before her 
without effect, lithographic maps of unbuilt cities 
in the West, or of Venices to be conjured up in 
the North River; he turned her into stone, with 
calculations about the sugar beet and the morus 
multicaulis. Poor Mrs. Bates was too old to 
mend, and read out of her old book, that the bor¬ 
rower is servant to the lender.* In these de¬ 
bates Arthur was aided by a new friend of his, 
Peleg Peck, Esq. Mr. Peck was a son of the 
house of Peck, Pigeon, and Fitch, in Pearl street. 
After the usual time spent in billiards and dra¬ 
matic criticism, and after being bowed out of his 
father’s counting-house by the elder partner, Mr. 
George W. Pigeon of Providence, he opened a 
livery stable at Brooklyn. Thence, by some un¬ 
explained change, he became booking-clerk in a 
stage-office in Market street, Philadelphia, and his 
* Prov. xxii. 7. 

17 







194 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


last ostensible calling was that of clerk in a Mis¬ 
sissippi steamboat. But he had seen wonders in 
the great West, and had come back to engage 
other adventurers. It was after a dialogue be¬ 
tween Mr. Peck and Arthur, that the latter hastily 
entered his mother’s parlour. “ Why so flurried, 
my son ?” said Mrs. Bates, as her son threw him¬ 
self into an elbow chair. •“ Dearest mother! nothing 
uncommon, I assure you. But one who belongs 
to the world cannot but partake of its great con¬ 
cussions. The motions of the great sea reach 
even our little creeks.” 

“ Pray, come down from your stilts, Arthur: 
you used wiser as well as plainer talk when you 
were a well-doing carriage-maker. Surely your 
connexions with the moneyed world are slight.” 

“ Ah ! there it is, again. Your notions are out 
of date. Indeed, mother, I do not know that you 
have got the least insight into the great modern 
system of debt and credit.” 

“Be it so, my dear. Take a glass of water, 
and give me such lessons as suit my simplicity. 
But observe, before you begin, that I am not in 
my dotage yet, and that I have long observed that 
there is no subject on which men can talk longer 
without ideas, than on this same matter of credit, 
stocks, banks, and speculation. But perhaps you 
can trade in the same way without capital.” 

“ No jests, I entreat.—In sober earnestness— 
there is a great pressure—a panic, you may say— 
Wall street like the mouth of a bee-hive in June 


RISKS AND SPECULATIONS. 195 

—Three houses shut up this morning in Pearl 
street—and I have every reason to believe that the 
fall of cotton has ruined Cromwell and Zebulons 
of Mobile, which will dragp down Grubbs, Ish- 
mael, and Grubbs.” 

“ Hold ! hold! my son, what has come over 
you ! Panic—Wall street—Ishmael! And what 
concern can you have with these affairs? You 
are not a bank-director, a broker, or a Jew.” 

“ True, my dear mother—true—but let me ex¬ 
plain. The modern system is so bound—that is, 
such is the concatenation—just to think, that bills 
on London are no longer—in a word, money is so 
scarce.—But your old notions are so queer, that I 
shall seem ridiculous.” 

“ Indeed you do,” said Mrs. Bates, drawing 
herself up with some sternness. “Indeed you 
do. This rigmarole is a mere screen for igno¬ 
rance—yes, pardon a mother’s plainness—for 
your ignorance of this complicated system of 
licensed gambling. Like too many, you have 
neglected your proper business; you have tried 
to retrieve matters, by unwarrantable means ; and 
now, in your embarrassments, you are trying to 
lay all the blame on public measures, banks, and 
brokers. A plain mechanical business, as thrifty 
as yours was, needs no such connexions. What 
did your poor father know of banks? Yet he 
was worth his forty thousand dollars, just before 
his two younger brothers decoyed him into a 
share in their liabilities. Arthur, I see your des- 


196 THE WORKING-MAN. 

perate game. I have seen it long. You have 
failed to grow rich by slow earnings. You have 
borrowed to support your needless expenses. You 
have filled one vessel from another, neither of 
them being your own. You are now staking all 
your credit on these paltry speculations. You 
have become a mere borrower; a borrower of 
what you can never pay.” 

I am not writing a biography, and therefore it 
will be enough to say, that Arthur Bates has for 
two years been clerk in the counting-room of the 
establishment owned by his father; a poor but 
honest man, and deeply penitent for his follies. 


THE WORKING-MAN IN WANT. 197 


xxxir. 

THE WORKING-MAN IN WANT. 

“ He that is down needs fear no fall.”—B ustyaw. 

There is not, perhaps, a country in the 
world where the extremes of human condition are 
less frequent than in our own: we are unac¬ 
quainted alike with princely wealth and abject 
wretchedness. Yet even here it is not always 
sunshine, even with the honest, temperate, and 
industrious. As a general rule, indeed, any man 
of ordinary health, strength, and capacity, can 
make his living, if he chooses : but there are ex¬ 
ceptions to the rule. It would be as absurd as it 
is inhuman to consider all poverty as the result of 
vice. The contrary is manifest every day. All 
men are fallible in judgment, and may fall into 
wrong projects. The best plans may fail from 
uncontrollable circumstances. The incapacity of 
a partner or an agent, or the fraud of a neighbour, 
or some sudden change in the price of an article, 
in the demand for a particular fabric, or even in 
the most trifling fashion, is often sufficient to bring 
to penury such as have never laid up any thing. 
But the case is so plain in the eyes of all observing 
17 * 


198 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


and benevolent men, that I shall not dwell on this 
point, but confine myself to a few suggestions for 
those who, by whatever path, have got to the bot¬ 
tom of the hill. 

My friend, let me take you by the hand : I like 
the pressure of a poor man’s hand, and I am not 
one of those Pharisaical helpers who can see 
nothing to pity where there is any thing to blame. 
It is enough for me that you are in straits : I ask 
not how you came there. But, let me whisper— 
it might be well if you would ask it yourself. Per¬ 
haps you have been lavish, when you had abun¬ 
dance. Perhaps you have been idle, or improvi¬ 
dent ; or your children have been too fine, or your 
wife has haunted auctions. Or, peradventure, you 
have been too fond of a horse or a gun; or the 
coin has found its way from your till into the bar¬ 
room or the eating-house; or you have been a 
customer of the brewer, or the tobacconist. No 
matter—whatever the wrong step may have been, 
the course of wisdom is for you to learn by expe¬ 
rience. Dread the fire which has scorched you; 
perhaps it is the best and the cheapest lesson you 
ever had. Now, when you are cool and collected, 
in the shades of the valley, take a survey of the 
path which you ought to have trodden, and make 
up your mind to choose and to pursue it. 

Be sure not to listen to the voice of pride. 
This is what barbs the arrow of poverty. True, 
if you are in absolute want, and near starvation, 
there will be wo enough even without pride. But 


THE WORKING-MAN IN WANT. 199 


in the great majority of reverses, the feeling of 
mortification is the worst part. If you have 
enough to support nature, and are doing all that is 
in your power, banish the consideration of other 
people’s thoughts, which cannot make your case 
either better or w r orse. With a good conscience, 
you may safely leave your case to the care of Pro¬ 
vidence. 

You are, it is true, at the foot of the ladder ; 
but what then ? The way up is just the same as 
before. Never despond ; this is the grand rule, 
and I repeat it, never despond. The most suc¬ 
cessful men have had their reverses. “ Try 
again,” is a good motto, and your condition must 
be bad indeed, if this does not set you right. At 
any rate, brooding over losses cannot repair them. 
Your melancholy feelings can do you no good, 
and will do you much harm. Despondency strikes 
a palsy into your arm, and cuts off all the chances 
of your recovery. It is, perhaps, as great an 
evil in poverty as in sickness. After all, it is not 
a leading trait in the American character; we are 
a sanguine people, and, like boats which easily 
right themselves, our merchants and mechanics 
rise out of troubles with an alacrity which is sur¬ 
prising. Encourage this hopeful temper, but let 
it be natural. As you value your happiness shun 
all artificial comforters. The man who, in embar¬ 
rassment, resorts to the bottle, or the tavern, may¬ 
be said to be half lost. However bad your con¬ 
dition may be, it is not so wretched as this will 


200 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


make you. If intoxicating liquors are always 
dangerous, they are a thousand-fold so to the man 
who is in straits. 

You are embarrassed, but not undone. Now 
let me warn you against suddenly abandoning 
your present business. In nine cases out of ten, 
those who leave the trade to which they have been 
bred, find the change disastrous. You cannot be 
as much at home in any other employment, and 
your having failed in one effort is no sign that you 
will fail in the next. On the same principle I 
would say, beware of suddenly changing your 
place of residence. This almost always involves 
loss of time, loss of mbney, and loss of credit. 
Whatever may have brought you down, resolve 
to retrieve your former standing in the very place 
where you have lost it. That which needs altera¬ 
tion is not your circumstances, but yourself. Un¬ 
less you can change this by a removal, you had 
better remain. There is, of course, an exception 
in those cases where a man’s business is over- 
stocked, where there is no demand for his labour, 
or where there exist other insuperable obstacles to 
his progress. 

Supposing you, then, to have come to the wise 
resolve to build on the old foundation, let me give 
you another hint: Do not relax your exertions for 
a moment. It is strange, but common, to see men 
making poverty an excuse for idleness. Their 
business has failed, and accordingly they walk 
about the streets for a month with their hands in 


THE WORKING-MAN IN WANT. 201 

their pockets. When the waterman finds that his 
boat has been carried by the tide far below the 
landing-place, he does not relax his rowing, and 
yield himself to the adverse waves, but braces 
every muscle, and pulls hard against the stream. 
Redouble your exertions, and you may soon be 
extricated. Particularly when one is in debt, this 
is the best encouragement which he can give his 
creditors to. allow him every favour. And if it 
has been your misfortune to be involved in debt, 
let me beseech you to avoid plunging any deeper 
into this slough. Necessity has no law, but so 
long as you can procure an honest mouthful of 
food, avoid this embarrassment. 

There are occasions on which, if ever, men are 
open to temptation. When want pinches, when ' 
wife and family cry for food, those whose ho¬ 
nour has never wavered will sometimes think 
of dishonest resources. Stifle the viper in your 
bosom! 

Last of all, I say, do not repine. Discontent 
will only imbitter the distress which it cannot re¬ 
lieve ; and it is as wrong as it is useless and inju¬ 
rious. Be humble, patient, and resigned to the 
arrangements of Providence, and you will not fail 
to see better days. 


202 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


XXXIII. 

THE VILLAGE REVISITED. 

“ I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 

Amidst the swains to show my book-learn’d skill, 
Around my fire an evening group to draw, 

And tell of all I felt, and all I saw. 

And as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 

Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 

I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 

Home to return—and die at home at last.” 

Goldsmith. 

After an absence of many years I lately re¬ 
visited the village of Ashford. This is a small 
inland place, in the midst of farmers, and undis¬ 
tinguished by manufactures or extensive trade. Its 
inhabitants are chiefly mechanics and store-keep¬ 
ers.—On my entrance, I perceived that the place 
had undergone fewer changes than is common in 
America. There was the same long, straggling 
street, widening at one place into a green or com¬ 
mon, upon which stood an unsightly market-place, 
of that red brick which so disfigures and degrades 
the architectural prospects of our country. There 
were the same inns, and before one of them the 
same creaking sign of an Indian Queen, at which 
I used to throw stones when I was a boy. The 


THE VILLAGE REVISITED. 


203 


principal tavern had been enlarged, and I was told 
that the present incumbent was the last of six who 
had practised at that bar within twenty years. Be¬ 
sides those who had been burned out, one had been 
hanged, and one had become a reformed character. 
I was sorry to see that the other tavern-keeper waa 
a person who had in former days been a pro 
mising saddler. 

My attention was drawn forcibly to the places 
of the old mechanics. I looked for old James 
Sorrel, the chair-maker; there was no trace of 
him or his. None of his sons were bred to his 
trade, and those who survive are in the West. I 
also looked for Mark Belville, the hatter—the 
only one of his trade in those days. He ran 
away from his creditors fifteen years ago. The 
reason I found it easy to guess : his shop was 
always a rendezvous for the idlers of the whole 
street. The little English tailor, who was next 
in the row, had become too old to work; I was 
told he had become rich and miserly; he had no 
children, and, as I remember, could not read. Ro¬ 
berts, the shoemaker, was still visible, a gray¬ 
haired old man, pacing about the street with an 
unsteady step, his hands behind him. After many 
years’ hard work, he has retired to live with a 
married niece; his sons are in Ohio, except one 
who keeps up the trade in a neighbouring town. 
The old man has one serious calamity : he has no 
solace for his old age, either of mind or heart. In 
his young days he had but one rule, Be honest 


204 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


and industrious. How many think this all- 
sufficient ! lie observed it; he worked early 
and late, till his back was bowed down, and his 
eyesight gone. He succeeded—that is, he accu¬ 
mulated wealth. In order to do this, he saved 
both time and money. He had no books but an 
almanac, and always voted at town-meeting for 
the lowest possible sum to common schools. His 
charity began at home ; and he took care to let it 
end there; and resolving to be just before he 
should be generous, he was all his life practising 
this first lesson. Now, in his old age, he is wealthy, 
but wretched. The domestic charm which keeps 
some families together, was unknown to him, and 
he is a solitary widower; though, if you number 
his children, the family is large. I have written 
down in my pocket-book, that it will not do for a 
man to make a god of his trade; and that, in spite 
of Ben Franklin, there are other goods in life than 
popularity and thrift. The very next house is oc¬ 
cupied by two young brokers, partners, who are 
playing the very same game. A new run of 
loungers appeared in the streets, but in no respect 
inferior to those who had been before them, having 
the same airs, and very much the same haunts. 
It is a class which propagates itself with remark¬ 
able ease, and there are few country towns in 
which there may not be found abundant speci¬ 
mens. The spots once occupied by the shops of 
two bakers, I was pleased to see covered with 
beautiful pleasure-grounds, and embellished with 


THE VILLAGE REVISITED. 205 

two mansions a good deal superior to any thing in 
Ashford. I knew their occupants well. They 
were dutiful boys, and public-spirited men. The 
time and money, which at intervals they bestowed 
upon objects of common interest, have been amply 
made up to them by increase of credit and re¬ 
spectability. Benevolence is good policy. By 
doing good they are more known, and more re¬ 
vered. ‘The chief difficulty is for them to decline 
offices of trust; and they are already concerned in 
the administration and settlement of more estates 
than any of their fellow-townsmen.—Though not 
related, they have always been good friends ; and 
I am told they are about to join in erecting, chiefly 
at their own expense, a Lyceum, or building for 
public lectures and philosophical experiments. 
They furnish a happy example of that healthful 
popularity which may be attained without an 
undue meddling with party politics. 

By this I am reminded of Oliver Crabbe, the 
tallow-chandler. One would have supposed that 
Oliver’s business might have occupied all his 
hours, but he found time to spend upon the affairs 
of the public. He was oftener in his front shop 
than in his dipping-room, because his front shop 
was a sort of news-room. There, upon bench 
and counter, at almost any hour, might be seen 
the sage quidnuncs of the town. It was the vil¬ 
lage exchange. In spite of odours “ not of am¬ 
ber,” that door seemed to attract to itself perpetual 
groups, which might be likened to the clusters at 
18 


206 


THE WORKING-MAF. 


the aperture of a bee-hive. Here the newspapers 
were read, and the public business settled. As 
you might expect, Oliver was chief speaker ^ he 
loved to hear himself talk, which I have observed 
to be the grand inducement to mingle in politics. 
There was no meeting of the party to which he 
belonged, at which he did not find it easy to at¬ 
tend, whatever might be the state of his business. 
At town meetings, his voice was lifted up, and 
when he passed between the tellers, he was 
usually followed by a retinue of humble political 
admirers. I am not sure that he did net some¬ 
times dream of higher honours, for I have heard 
him rallied about a sheet of paper, on which he 
had practised, in a fine flourishing hand, the mys¬ 
terious words, Pub. Doc. Free Oliver Crabbe. 
Oliver has been in the poor-house for five years. 

The grave-yard of the little village gave evident 
tokens that almost a generation had passed away. 
In walking among the green mounds, and marble 
memorials, I could not but observe that a large 
proportion of those who lay there had by no means 
arrived at extreme age. Another reflection which 
forced itself on me was, that the epitaphs never 
told the whole truth. The young man who ac¬ 
companied me seemed very sensible of this. I 
would, for instance, read aloud from a headstone 
the pretty verses commemorative of some spotless 
youth, and my guide would say, “ He died of 
drink.” Of another, equally celebrated over his 
grave, he would observe: “ This man was a 


THE VILLAGE REVISITED. 207 

drunkard.” Indeed, I shudder to think how 
many whom I once knew among the working 
classes of this place, have been brought to their 
grave, either directly or indirectly, by strong drink. 
As I sauntered about the streets and neighbouring 
lanes, I would occasionally stumble on one and 
another of the few surviving topers, who seem to 
be left as warnings by Providence, like the black¬ 
ened pine-trunks after a forest-burning. It is re¬ 
markable that when you find an aged drunkard, 
you commonly find that he did not begin very 
early, and also that he has murdered several child¬ 
ren by his example, and sent them before him into 
eternity. 

But my reflections must draw to a close. Look¬ 
ing at the town as a whole, I see some increase, 
and some improvement; but, in the midst of this, 
too great a disposition to be still and do nothing. 
It will do for the present , is a ruinous motto. It 
has led Dick Harlow to leave an old post-and-rail 
fence in front of his house and shop, until he has 
grown to be an old man. It has allowed an old 
ruinous well-curb to disgrace the garden of Jones, 
the wheelwright, ever since he was a boy. It has 
kept half a dozen little door-yards without a single 
improvement, when they might, every one of 
them, have been, this fine April morning, full of 
hyacinths, crocuses, violets, and moss-pinks. And, 
to speak of more public concerns, this same motto 
might be inscribed over the shabby town-house, 


208 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


shadeless streets, and filthy horse-pond, which con¬ 
tinue to be nuisances of the village of Ashford. 

After all, there are a score or two of honest, 
healthy, happy artisans, who are thriving in their 
business, and bringing up their households in vir¬ 
tuous habits. There are two good schools, and a 
new church; a debating society, and a musical 
club; a reading-room and a lyceum ; and at any 
moment at which the body of the people shall 
agree to abandon their sleepy motto, there will be 
a hundred more good things to recount. 













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THE CONTENTED WORKING-MAN. 209 


XXXIV. 

THE CONTENTED WORKING-MAN. 

“ I love to hear of those, who, not contending 
Nor summon’d to contend for virtue’s prize, 

Miss not the humbler good at which they aim; 

Blest with a kindly faculty to blunt 

The edge of adverse circumstance, and turn 

Into their contraries the petty plagues 

And hinderances with which they stand beset.” 

Wordsworth. 

In our earliest story-books, and in the copies 
set for us by our writing-masters, we all learned 
the value of contentment. But in real life, it is 
remarkable how little this excellent means of hap¬ 
piness is cultivated. The other evening, as I sat 
under my willow with Uncle Benjamin and Mr. 
Appletree, the question arose whether men were 
made unhappy more by their own fault, or the 
fault of others. The good schoolmaster gave it 
as his opinion, that in our country most men might 
be happy if they would. “I except,” said he, 
“ cases of signal calamity; but as Virgil says of 
the farmers, I say of most of my neighbours, ‘ 0 
too happy men ! if ye only knew your own ad¬ 
vantages P ” 

Here I ventured to put in my oar, by saying, 

18* 


210 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


what, perhaps, may not be new to the reader, 
that there are few men who do not wish for some¬ 
thing which they have not. “Yes,” said uncle 
Benjamin, “ according to the old saying, ‘ Enough 
means a little more.’ Every man wants to reach 
a higher peak of the mountain before he sits down, 
when he might as well sit down where he is.” 
“ You remind me of Plutarch, uncle Benjamin,” 
said the schoolmaster. “ In his life of Pyrrhus, 
he relates that this monarch was once talking with 
Cineas, a favourite orator and counsellor, about 
the plan of his future conquests. First, he meant 
to conquer the Romans. Then he would extend 
his power over all Italy. Then he would pass to 
Sicily, to Lybia, to Carthage. ‘ But when we 
have conquered all,’ asked Cineas, ‘ what are we 
to do then V ‘ Why, then, my friend,’ said Pyr¬ 
rhus, laughing, ‘ we will take our ease, and drink 
and be merry.’ ‘ But why,’ said Cineas, « can 
we not sit down and do that just as well now V 
The same may be applied to smaller men than 
Pyrrhus.” 

“Ay, ay, you say truly,” said the old man, 
shaking out the ashes, and preparing for a fresh 
pipe; “you say truly. Few men are wise in 
time. They chase their game so hotly that when 
they have run it down they can’t enjoy it. There 
was our neighbour Gripe: Mr. Quill knew him 
well. He and I began life together. Gripe 
started in a small way, but by everlasting pains 
made himself a rich man. He had no children, 


THE CONTENTED WORKING-MAN. 211 

and few expenses, yet he always pressed on as if 
the constable was at his heels. There was no 
repose—there was no relaxation. Round and 
round he went, like a horse in a mill. I often 
urged him to stop. ‘ You have enough,’ I would 
say, ‘begin to enjoy it; why make yourself the 
prey of these vexing cares V But no—he could 
not be content. At length his wife died; he was 
left alone, rich but friendless. He gave up busi¬ 
ness, but it was too late. His fireside had no 
charms, and he fell into a melancholy which was 
soon followed by a mortal complaint. So he died 
without having ever known what it was to sit down 
and enjoy a moment of quiet. The whole of his 
property was scattered to the winds, by a pair of 
grand-nephews, his heirs-at-law.” 

“ Nature requires but a little,” said Mr. Apple- 
tree. “ We are the slaves of our artificial wants. 
I have accustomed myself to say, in looking at 
many a piece of luxury, ‘I can do without it.’ 
Even the ancient heathen had learned as much as 
this. Their philosophers endeavoured to per¬ 
suade men to seek happiness by narrowing their 
desires, rather than by increasing their gratifica¬ 
tions. ‘ He who wants least,’ says one of them, 
‘ is most like the gods, who want nothing.’ ” 

“ Those old fellows were mighty wise, I dare 
say,” said uncle Benjamin; “ but I warrant you 
they found it hard to practise as they preached. 
At the same time no one can deny the truth of 
what they affirmed. And I have often told my 




212 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


son Sammy, that nothing would be a greater curse 
to him than to have all his desires gratified; ac¬ 
cording to the old story of the Three Wishes. 
On the other hand, if a man would but buckle his 
desires within the belt of his circumstances, he 
would be happy in an Irish cabin.” 

“ Do you think, uncle Benjamin, that men 
usually gain this sort of wisdom in proportion as 
they rise in the world ?” “ No, no—far from it. 

Pampering does not produce patience. He who 
grows rich is only feeding a fever. Indulgence 
begets peevishness. Those tailors and shoe¬ 
makers, along our street, who are just shutting up 
for the night, are happier than the wealthy sports¬ 
men and idlers over the river; nay, they are hap¬ 
pier than they will be themselves, when, like so 
many American mechanics, they become wealthy, 
and live in their own great houses. I have often 
heard Thrale, the rich brewer, say that he did 
not feel at home in his own parlour, and that he 
looked back with regret to the days when he had 
but three rooms in his house.” 

This led me to relate the story of my cousin 
Barnaby Cox. He was a book-binder, in a small 
way, and took a sweet little woman to wife, and 
lived in the lower part of Second street. He 
seemed as happy a fellow as worldly things can 
make any one ; he earned his pleasures, and he 
enjoyed them. He needed no balls, taverns, 
gaming, or theatre to enliven his evenings. This 
was while he lived, as you may say, from hand 


THE CONTENTED WORKING-MAN. 213 

to mouth. By some turn in the wheel, he be¬ 
came prosperous; he formed new connexions, 
and got into new lines of business ; in short, he 
became a wealthy man. But riches did not make 
him a better man. He lives in splendour in 
Chestnut street; but he has gone down in health 
and cheerfulness. He is restless, and listless, and 
seems never to know what to do next. His great 
house is seldom visited except by a few relations, 
and if the truth could be told, he sighs for the 
evenings he used to enjoy when work was done,. 

“ The case is not rare,” said Mr. Appletree; 
“ but I have one to relate, which, I think, you 
will allow, is really so. It may be taken as a fair 
offset to Mr. Quill’s. In the neighbourhood 
where I was bred, there is a man whom I shall 
call Orator. He was the son of a wealthy and 
somewhat proud family, and fell heir to a large 
and well-kept estate. There was not a nobler 
farm or mansion in the whole country-side. Be¬ 
ing a man of studious habits, and indolent and 
melancholy, he allowed his affairs to run on rather 
negligently, and partly from this cause, and partly 
from the treachery of his principal legal agent, he 
became what the world calls a ruined man. 

“ Ruined, however, he was not. After the first 
shock of misfortune, he seemed to be awakened 
to new energies. His indolence and his gloom 
took leave of him. lie set about the retrieving 
of his fortune, with an energy which astonished 
those who knew him best. True, he is likely to be 


214 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


a poor man as long as he lives, but he is in a fair 
way to pay his debts, and he is cheerful and con¬ 
tented. Not long since I called upon him at his 
humble dwelling, in the midst of a little piece of 
land which he tills. He was in his working 
dress, and moist with the labours of the hay-field; 
but he received me with a radiant smile, and ush¬ 
ering me into his sitting-room, cried out, ‘ Here, 
Lucy, is our old friend Appletree ; he has not for¬ 
gotten the champagne and venison of Strawberry 
hill, nor have we: we cannot treat him to any; 
but we can teach him, when our children come in, 
that there is some truth still in the old stories about 
cottages and contentment.’ And the blended blush 
and tear of his wife, with the whoop and halloo 
of the boys that just then bounded into the room, 
told me that, by coming down in the world, they 
had risen in the scale of true enjoyment.” 


WHO IS THE WORKING-MAN? 215 


XXXV. 

WHO IS THE WORKING-MAN? 

“ Cade. Dost thou use to write thy name 1 or hast thou a 
mark to thyself, like an honest plain-dealing man ? 

Clerk. Sir, I thank God, I have been so well brought up 
that I can write my name. 

All. He hath confessed; away with him: he’s a villain, 
and a traitor. 

Cade. Away with him, I say; hang him with his pen 
and inkhorn about his neck.” 

Second Part of King Henry VI. 

In using the title working-man, I have merely- 
availed myself of a phrase which is commonly- 
understood. As usually employed, it designates 
the artisan, the mechanic, the operative, or the 
labourer; all, in a word, who work with their 
hands. But I trust no reader of these pages will so 
far misunderstand me, as to suppose that I mean 
to deny that there are multitudes of other classes, 
who work, and work hard, and whose honest in¬ 
dustry is as useful to society as that of the smith 
or the carpenter. 

There are many varieties of industry, and the 
common distinction is a just one between head- 
work and hand-work. But then the two are so 
intermingled that it is almost impossible to draw 


216 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


the line between them. The mathematical instru 
ment maker is as industrious and indispensable a 
character as the puddler in an iron foundry; but 
the work of the former is chiefly head-work : and 
then what a difference between the bodily labour 
of the two ! Yet no reasonable person could ex¬ 
clude the instrument maker from the number of 
working-men. The nice operations, however, of 
this workman, as also those of the watchmaker* 
jeweller, lapidary, and engraver, do not, in a 
strict sense, deserve the name of labour any more 
than that of the man who writes his six hours 
daily in a clerk’s office. Yet how many are there 
who would deny the honours of industry to the 
jaded clerk, even though his toils are a thousand¬ 
fold more wasting and disheartening than those of 
the mason or wheelwright! 

In every great establishment both kinds of ser¬ 
vice are required, and neither party should look 
upon the other with jealousy or disdain. There 
must, for instance, in a great printing establish¬ 
ment, be men to work the presses, and boys to 
see to the rollers; and there must be the setting 
up of the type ; but, again, there must be correct¬ 
ing of the proofs, which is purely head-work. 
There must be keeping of accounts, which is of 
the same nature, and equally indispensable. And, 
if I may be allowed to say a word in behalf of 
my own calling, there is the poor author, but for 
whom the press would stand still; and whose 
labour is not the least exhausting of the whole. 


WHO IS THE WORKING-MAN? 217 

Yet he is the very one who, according to some 
of the popular doctrines of the day, should be 
denied the name and credit of a working-man ! 
In every extensive manufactory, the carter, dray¬ 
man, or porter, is not more necessary than the 
clerk or book-keeper. The conductor of a rail¬ 
road train, though he does little or nothing with 
his hands, is as needful as the brake-man or en¬ 
gineer. The skilful director of a cotton-mill, who 
contrives and manages, is just as necessary as the 
operatives. No great building can be erected 
without previous drawings; the man who plans 
and executes these, has no more labour than he 
who keeps the books ; and both these are no less 
working-men than the stone-sawyer in the marble- 
yard, or the hod-carrier upon the scaffold. The 
pilot does no hard labour on board ship, yet he is 
as important a working-man as the hardiest tar. 
So, likewise, in the manufacture of complicated 
machines, such as steam-engines, not a blow can 
be effectually struck until the chief engineer has 
gone about his head-work, and made his calcula¬ 
tions : and the sturdy fellow who toils at the anvil, 
or the grindstone, should not forget that his em¬ 
ployer is tasked as severely and as needfully as 
himself. There is really such a thing as head- 
work, and it is hard work. This is proved by 
the appearance of those who are devoted to it. 
Clerks, book-keepers, accountants, and all writers, 
are liable to suffer exceedingly in point of health, 
from their confined atmosphere and fixed position. 
19 


218 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


They are often as much distressed by rest as la¬ 
bouring men by motion ; the maintenance of one 
posture injures them in various ways. Their 
digestive organs soon give way, they grow lean 
and sallow, and low-spirited, and are ready to 
envy every wood-sawyer they meet. Surely it 
is unjust to sneer at such men, as drones in the 
hive. 

The concerns of life cannot be carried on with¬ 
out a mixture of both head-work and hand-work. 
Strike out either sort from any extensive establish¬ 
ment, and the work must come to an end. A 
hasty observer, on going into a ship-yard, and 
seeing the bustle, and hearing the hum of business, 
would be ready to think that every thing was done 
by main force, by the saw, hammer, and adze. 
But on looking a little deeper, he would find that 
quite as important a part of the work is done out 
of sight, in the noiseless office, or model-loft. He 
would see one man writing letters, or copying 
them in a book, another posting into a leger, a 
third drawing plans, a fourth making tedious com¬ 
putations, and a fifth overseeing the whole, and 
acting as head to a hundred pair of hands. How 
soon would our famous steam-engines, which have 
attracted admiration even in England, cease to be 
produced, if it were not for the contriving heads 
of our Stevenses, Baldwins, Norrises, and Mer- 
ricks ! Can any man deny that James Watt or 
Sir Richard Arkwright were working as really 
and as hard for the common good, when they 


WHO IS THE WORKING-MAN? 219 

were studying out their great inventions, as if they 
had been filing brass, or casting iron, or turning a 
lathe ? And was not Sir Humphry Davy, in his 
laboratory, when contriving his safety-lamp, as 
truly working in a useful vocation as the humblest 
miner with his pick-axe and shovel ? But the 
principle admits of much wider application, to 
those, namely, who have no immediate connexion 
with manual labour. I maintain, that every man 
who honestly supports himself by industrious ap¬ 
plication to useful business is a working-man. 
The mere amount of motion or bodily labour does 
not make so great a difference. If it did, we 
might find it hard to show that -there is not a 
wider step between the coal-heaver and the tailor, 
than between the tailor and the accountant. Roger 
Sherman was first a shoemaker, and then a Con¬ 
gressman but he worked harder and did more 
good in the latter than in the former capacity. 
John Newton was first a sailor and then a 
preacher; but no one who knows his history will 
deny that he was vastly more useful to society in 
his second calling. The salesman and travelling 
agent are working-men, no less than the manu¬ 
facturer. The affairs of commerce require clerks, 
bankers, merchants, calculators, editors of jour¬ 
nals. Not less necessary are physicians, teachers, 
lawyers, clergymen, and judges. No man can 
be said to lead an easy life who faithfully dis¬ 
charges the duties of any one of these professions; 
and this would be soon found to be true, by any 


220 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


doubter who should undertake to assume their 
place for a single week. If knowledge is power, 
then those who make great acquirements in 
science are contributing in the highest degree to 
the productions of human art. Many a man can 
do ten times as much in this way as in any other. 
The late lamented Judge Buel, of Albany, whose 
death has been announced since this work was 
going through the press, may be named as an in¬ 
stance in point. Though he well knew what it 
was to labour with his own hands as a practical 
farmer, yet no one who has looked at the pages 
of the “Cultivator,” will doubt for an instant that 
by conducting this work he did more for the agri¬ 
culture, and consequently for the wealth of his 
country, than any hundred farmers, as good as he, 
could have accomplished by following the plough. 
Let us hear no more of this cant about working 
men and idle men: all industrious citizens are 
working-men. There are drones, indeed, but 
they exist as largely in the ranks of nominal la¬ 
bour as elsewhere. 

Nearly allied to this subject, is another to 
which the most serious and impartial attention is 
requested. I mean the opposition which some 
have attempted to set on foot, between the poor 
and the rich. It is natural for the opposition to 
exist in some degree; but they are traitors to 
society who make it their business to foster it. It 
is natural for the hard working-man, sorely pressed 
to support his family, to look with envy upon the 


WHO IS TIIE WORKING-MAN? 221 

glittering equipage or marble house of his wealthy 
neighbour. But to seek the regulation of this 
matter by tumult and spoliation would be the ex¬ 
treme of madness. There never has been, and 
there never will be a country without this same 
division- into rich and poor. Attempts have, in¬ 
deed, been made for a season, to have every thing 
in common ; somewhat after the visions of Robert 
Owen; but they have always failed. This was 
tried two hundred years ago among the romantic 
settlers of Virginia ; but the bubble soon burst, 
for none were gainers but the drones, and it was 
soon proclaimed as a law, that “ he who will not 
work shall not eat.” 

The sure and direct way to competency and 
even wealth, is the quiet pursuit of a good trade 
or calling. In no country is this more true than 
in our own, where there are no legal barriers 
against the rising of the honest poor; where 
there are no titles of nobility, no law of primo¬ 
geniture, no entail of estates. A few glaring ex¬ 
ceptions there may be, but, generally speaking, 
the wealth of this country has been acquired by 
indefatigable industry : our rich men have been 
working-men. Or, suppose it to have been their 
fathers who were the working-men; is my reader 
the man who would cut off his own sons from all 
the advantages of what he has earned ? It is idle, 
it is ruinous, in such a country as ours, to set the 
poor against the rich. For who are the poor? 
If you mean the drunken, the profligate, the idle; 
19 * 


222 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


our gamblers, sharpers, and sturdy beggars ; cer¬ 
tainly it is not for their behoof that you would 
make a division of property. Who are the poor? 
If you mean the hard-working tradesman or ope¬ 
rative—he does not need your help, and if he is 
wise he will not ask it; because he is rapidly 
passing out of the ranks of the poor into those of 
the rich. Nor would it be possible to draw a line 
separating the one class from the other, without 
placing on each hand those who were rising or 
falling from either side. Whose interest, then, is 
it to excite prejudices between rich and poor? 
Not that of the industrious; not that of the poor 
man who has sons, who may rise to the utmost 
elevation known among us ; not that of the quiet 
man who desires security of property for himself 
and his neighbour; but only of the grasping and 
designing rogue, who, like a thief at a fire, wishes 
to profit by the general confusion. 

All these suspicions and heart-burnings between 
one class and another are evil and disastrous. 
There can no more be an absolute level in society 
than in the ocean; and there is no great class of 
men which is not necessary to the good of all the 
rest. The reader of history will remember the 
famous story of Menenius Agrippa, a Roman 
consul and general, as related by Livy. The 
populace were up in arms against the nobles, and 
had intrenched themselves on one of the hills of 
the city. Agrippa appeased them by the follow¬ 
ing fable : “ Once on a time, when each member 


WHO IS THE WORKING-MAN? 223 


of the human body could speak for itself, the 
members became dissatisfied with the belly; 
which, said they, does nothing but lie in state, and 
enjoy the fruit of our labours. They resolved, 
therefore, upon a strike, and determined to stop 
the supplies of this luxurious organ. The hands 
stopped work, and would bring no food to keep 
him from starving; the mouth would receive no 
provision; the feet came to a perfect stand-still; 
in a word, all business was stagnant. There 
was great perseverance in this combination, until 
at length a universal emaciation took place, and 
it was see® that there was no such thing as living 
without the kind offices of this indolent and aris¬ 
tocratic consumer of victual.” 


224 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


XXXVI. 

HOME PLEASURES. 

“ I crown thee king of intimate delights, 

Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, 

And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
Of undisturb’d retirement, and the hours 
Of long uninterrupted evening know.” 

Cower. 

• 

The family relation implies community of in¬ 
terest ; as there is a common stock, so there are 
common sorrows and common joys. Put a dozen 
people together in a house, and let each lead the 
life of a hermit: this would be no family, even 
though they might be blood relations. There is 
more of domestic life even in the steerage of a 
packet-ship, where like seeks its like, and little 
congenial groups are formed before the voyage is 
over. The true glory of home is in the middle 
region of civilization: it is absent alike from the 
highest and the lowest. What can be more cheer¬ 
less than the sullen selfishness of the Indian wig¬ 
wam ; where the relentless savage wraps himself 
up in indolent dignity, while the squaw and the 
children are spurned, as unworthy of a look—un¬ 
less it be the elegant and fashionable household 
of the prince or noble, where each is independent 


HOME PLEASURES. 


225 


of the other, and has his separate equipage and 
peculiar friends. Compare with this the cottage 
of the poor labourer, who returns at twilight to 
be welcomed by every human being, and every 
domestic animal; who tells over, or hears, all the 
occurrences of the day, and who feels that there 
is no interest which he does not share with every 
one around him. 

There is more value than all believe, in the 
simple maxim, Let family enjoyments be com¬ 
mon to all. If there are few who deny this, there 
are still fewer who act upon it in its full extent. 
Something of it, as I have said, there must be, to 
make a family at all. We occupy the same house, 
sit around the same fire, and eat at the same table. 
It would seem churlish, and almost inhuman, to 
do otherwise. But I am for carrying the matter 
much farther, and for knitting more closely to¬ 
gether those who cluster around the same hearth; 
believing that every influence is evil which severs 
father from child, and brother from brother. The 
morsel that is eaten alone becomes sooner or later 
a bitter morsel. 

Members of the same household should feel 
that they are dependent on one another, and should 
be as free to ask, as ready to give, assistance. 
Each should rise in the morning with the impres¬ 
sion, that no duty of the day is more urgent than 
to make every individual happy, with whom he is 
brought into contact. And this contact should be 
sought, not shunned. It is a bad sign, when 


226 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


members of the same household are shy of one 
another. I do not, of course, allude here to those 
horrid instances of unnatural, brutal temper, 
where persons of the same blood, daily gathered 
around the same board, refuse to speak to one 
another: malice and envy must rankle deeply 
where this can be the case. I refer to a more 
common fault, which sometimes exists where 
there is a degree of real affection, but where the 
members of a family have separate pursuits and 
separate pleasures. The hasty morning meal is 
swallowed with little intercourse. When it is 
done, each hurries to his or her peculiar line of 
employment. The mother is busy in the kitchen, 
the father in the shop, the sons go their several 
ways. This might do well enough, if it were 
confined to business, but it becomes the habit of 
the hours of leisure. The father has his evenings 
abroad; the sons are seldom within doors till a 
late hour, and too often, she who most needs the 
cheering influences of the family circle, the 
mother, is left to patch or darn by a dim candle, 
with the cradle moving at her feet, during those 
hours in which her daughters are laughing or 
singing among their young company. All this is 
highly undesirable. The evenings of the indus¬ 
trious family may be, and ought to be, delightful 
seasons of joint satisfactions. If we must have 
evening parties of friends, let there be a proper 
mingling of sexes and ages. The presence of the 
old may to a degree moderate the mirth of the 


HOME PLEASURES. 


227 


young, but in the same proportion the aged will 
be enlivened. This parcelling and assorting of 
society, like labelled packages in a shop, is be¬ 
coming too common, and in my judgment inju¬ 
rious. The young folks must be all together; 
and the children must be all together; and if mat¬ 
ters go on thus, we may live to see parties of 
gray beards and parties of sucklings. No ! wher¬ 
ever it is possible, let the family chain be kept 
bright and whole. In the houses of the indus¬ 
trious, it is surely broken often enough by separa¬ 
tion at work during the day. 

Instead of thus living apart, which engenders 
selfishness and moroseness, I love to see the mem¬ 
bers of families flowing together, like congenial 
drops. There are some houses in which no one 
makes a confidant of another: if one would learn 
the secret of his brother, he must go abroad for it. 
This is unnatural, and wholly evil; incompatible 
with the frankness of simple love. Show me the 
father often walking with his sons, and these sons 
often with one another, not in business merely, but 
in sports ; and I shall think I see a virtuous and 
happy household. 

There is one particular in which the principle 
I have laid down may have a very important ap¬ 
plication. I mean the case of mental improve¬ 
ment. The rule should here be, so far as pos¬ 
sible, let the pursuit of knowledge in every family 
be a joint pursuit. For many reasons this is de¬ 
sirable in every house, but it is almost indispen- 




228 


THE WOBKING-MAN. 


sable in the house of the working-man. It wakes 
up the spirit of improvement; it saves time and 
expense, and it gives tenfold zest to the refresh¬ 
ments of leisure. To take one of the simplest 
instances, I would, in two words, say to every 
working-man, Head aloud. If the book is bor¬ 
rowed, this is often the only way in which every 
one can get his share. If the family is very busy, 
—and the female members of all industrious fami¬ 
lies are as much sojn the evening as in the day— 
the reading of one will be as good as the reading 
of all, and while one reads, a dozen may knit or 
sew. There are many persons who enjoy much 
more and retain much better what is read to them 
than what they read themselves : to the reader 
himself, there is a great difference in favour of 
reading aloud, as it regards the impression on his 
own mind. The members of the circle may take 
turns, and thus each will have a chance of learn¬ 
ing, what so few really attain, the art of correct 
and agreeable reading. Occasion is thus offered 
for questions, remarks, and general discourse; 
and it is almost impossible for conversation to 
flag, where this practice is pursued. With this 
method, the younger members of a family may be 
saved in a good degree from the perusal of frivo¬ 
lous and hurtful books; and, if a little foresight 
be used, a regular course of solid or elegant in¬ 
struction might thus be constantly going forward, 
even in the humblest family. 

But the moral and social effects of such a prac- 


HOME PLEASURES. 


229 


tice are not less to be regarded. Evenings thus 
spent will never be forgotten. Their influence 
will be daily felt in making every member of the 
circle more necessary to all the rest. There will 
be an attractive charm in these little fireside asso¬ 
ciations which will hold the sons and daughters 
back from much of the wandering which is com¬ 
mon. It will be a cheap, wholesome, safe enjoy¬ 
ment, and it will be all this, at home. 

The gains of an affectionate family ought to be 
shared and equalized; the remark is true of all 
degrees and kinds of learning. Study has a ten¬ 
dency to drive men to solitude, and solitude begets 
selfishness, whim, and moroseness. There are 
some households in which only one person is 
learned ; this one, however amiable, has, perhaps, 
never thought of sharing his acquisitions with a 
brother or a sister. How seldom do men com¬ 
municate what they have learned to their female 
relations : or, as a man once said in my hearing, 
“ Who tells news to his wife ?” And yet how 
easy would it be, by dropping a word here, and 
a word there, for even a philosopher to convey the 
chief results of his inquiries to those whom he 
meets at every meal. I have been sometimes sur¬ 
prised to see fathers, who had made great attain¬ 
ments, and who, therefore, knew the value of 
knowledge, abstaining from all intercourse with 
their sons, upon the points which were nearest 
their own hearts. In families where the reverse 
of this is true, that is, where the pursuits of the 
20 




230 


TIIE WORKING-MAN. 


house have been a joint business, it is common to 
see a succession of persons eminent in the same 
line. Thus, among linguists, the Buxtorfs ; 
among painters the Vernets and the Peales; among 
musicians, the Garcias ; in literature, the Edge- 
worths, the Taylors, and the Wirts. 

There are some pleasures which, in their very 
nature, are social ; these may be used to give a 
charm to the working-man’s home. This is more 
true of nothing than of music. Harmony implies 
a concurrence of parts, and I have seen families 
so trained, that every individual had his allotted 
part or instrument. Let the thing, however, be 
conducted by some rule. If proper pains be taken 
with children, while they are yet young, they 
may all be taught to sing. Where circumstances 
favour it, instrumental music may be added. It 
is somewhat unfortunate that American women 
practise almost entirely upon the more expensive 
instruments ; and it is not every man who can or 
ought to give two hundred and fifty dollars for a 
piano-forte. In countries where the guitar is a 
common accompaniment, it is within the reach 
of the poorest. There may be lovely music, 
however, without any instrument. The most ex¬ 
quisite music in the world, I mean that of the 
pope’s Sistine Chapel, is known to be such. 
There is great room for selection, however, both 
as to music and words. It is the height of folly 
to buy every new thing which comes from the 
music-sellers. So far as words are concerned, a 


HOME PLEASURES. 231 

full half of what they publish is nonsense, or 
worse; and I have blushed to see a young lady 
turning over what she very properly called her 
“loose music.” Those persons, therefore, de¬ 
serve our thanks, who from time to time are pub¬ 
lishing in a cheap form such secular music as is 
proper for families. I here refer chiefly to such 
works as Kingsley’s Social Choir, Mason’s Odeon, 
and the Boston Glee Book. 

But, after all, and without any reference to re¬ 
ligion, the best music is sacred music. It is on 
this that the greatest masters have laid out their 
strength; it is this which most suits the chorus 
of many voices. Secular pieces, as commonly- 
published, are intended to be sung by few, or by 
a single voice ; but sacred compositions admit of 
the strength of a whole company. And it is truly 
delightful to drop into one of those families where 
the evenings are sometimes spent in this way. 
There is the eldest daughter at the piano-forte, 
accompanied by the eldest son upon the violin. 
Another son and two daughters lead off* vocally, 
with the principal melody, while a neighbouring 
youth plays the tenor, and sings the same part. 
The old gentleman in spectacles labours at hte 
violoncello, and two or three flutes come in mo¬ 
destly to complete the orchestra ; while nieces, 
nephews, cousins, friends, and, perhaps, suitors, 
fill up the sounding chorus with right good will. 
This is, indeed, something more than a mere 
family meeting, but it is what grows out of it; 


232 


THE WORKING-MAN, 


J 

and when the evening ends, and some little re¬ 
freshments have gone around, the transition is not 
abrupt from this to the social worship, when 
all voices join once more in a happy evening 
hymn. 







V 





V 











EVENINGS AT HOME. 


233 


XXXVII. 

THE working-man’s EVENINGS AT HOME. 

“ O, evenings worthy of the gods ! exclaimed 
The Sabine bard. O evenings, I reply, 

More to be prized and coveted than yours, 

As more illumined, and with nobler truths, 

That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy.” 

Cowpeu. 

There are no portions of the working-man’s 
life in which a more constant series of innocent 
satisfactions is offered to him, than his evenings. 
This is true of those at least whose trades do not 
encroach upon the night. When labour is over, 
there is an opening for domestic pleasures which 
no wise man will ever neglect. 

My neighbour Boswell has a high sense of 
these enjoyments, and makes the most of them. 
Except when some public meeting calls him 
abroad, you are as sure to find him at home in the 
evening, as at work in the day. Sometimes, in¬ 
deed, he accompanies his wife or eldest daughter 
in a visit, but he never appears at clubs or taverns. 
“ I work hard,” he is accustomed to say, “ for my 
little comforts, and I like to enjoy them unbroken.” 

The picture w T ould not be unworthy of the 
20 * 



234 THE WORKING-MAN. 

pencil of a Wilkie : I have it clearly in my mind’s 
eye. The snug and well-closed room is all gay 
with the blaze of a high wood-fire; which casts 
upon the smiling circle a ruddy glow. There is 
Boswell, in his arm-chair, one hand between the 
leaves of a book which he has just closed, the 
other among the auburn locks of a little prattling 
girl. He gazes into the coals with that air of 
happy revery, which is so sure a token of a mind 
at rest. The wife, nearer to the light, is plying 
the ceaseless needle, and distributing kind words, 
and kinder glances among the little group. Mary, 
the eldest daughter, is leaning over a sheet oi 
paper, upon which she has just executed a draw¬ 
ing" George, the eldest son, is most laboriously 
engaged in the construction of a powder-horn. 
Two little ones are playing the royal game of 
Goose ; while one, the least of all, is asleep be¬ 
fore the fire, by the dog and the cat, who never 
fail to occupy the same spot every evening. 

Such humble scenes, I am happy to believe, are 
still presented to view, in thousands of families 
among the working classes. Need it be added, 
that they are immeasurably above the sickly heats 
of those who make pleasure the great object of 
their pursuit in life ? It is among such influences 
that religion spreads its balm, and that knowledge 
sheds its fruits. Rest after toil is always agree¬ 
able ; but it is doubly so when enjoyed in such 
circumstances, in the bosom of a loving family, 
healthful, instructed, and harmonious. Such uni- 


evenings at home. 


235 


formity is never tedious, nor such quiet ever dull. 
Every such evening may be remembered in after 
life with pleasing regrets. 

My friend tells me, that it is a refreshment to 
his mind, during the greatest labours or chagrin 
of the day, to look forward to his tranquil even¬ 
ing. When work is done, he hastens to wash 
away the traces of his ruder business, and to 
make himself as smart as is consistent with frugal 
plainness. “ He who hammers all day,” he says, 
“has a right to be clean at night.” This is the 
rule of his house; and when his sons grow large 
enough to be out at trades, they will, no doubt, 
come in every evening as trim and as tidy as they 
went out. 

It is- no interruption of such a group for a 
neighbour to drop in. The circle opens, a seat is 
drawn up, the sleepers are merrily pushed aside 
from the rug, the conversation grows lively, news 
circulates, and sparkles in every face. The salver 
of cakes, or the fruit-basket, or some healthful 
beverage prepared by “ neat-handed” Mary, adds 
to the substantial of the entertainment. The 
newspaper, or some pleasant book is read aloud ; 
and when the hour for separation comes, they 
part with a vastly better state of feeling than that 
of the greasy creature who has nodded in his 
moping corner, or the peevish tavern-haunter who 
comes home late to scold his solitary wife. 

It might be interesting to inquire what would be 
the effect upon the state of society in any village 


236 


THE W011KING-MAN. 


or town, if every working-man in it could be in¬ 
duced to spend his evenings at home, and in this 
manner. A reform in this single particular would 
work wonders. Every one who is admitted to 
such a scene, feels at once that there is a charm 
in it. Why, then, are there so many families, 
where nothing of this kind is known? To give 
all the reasons might be tedious ; but I must men¬ 
tion one or two. First, there must be punctuality, 
neatness, and thrift in the affairs of housekeeping, 
to make such a state of things practicable. No 
man loves to take his seat between two washing- 
tubs, or beside a fire where lard is simmering, or 
to stretch his legs over a hearth where almost 
every spot is occupied by some domestic utensil. 
Then, there must be a feeling of mutual respect 
and love, to afford inducement to come together 
in this way. Further, it is difficult to maintain 
these happy evening groups without some little 
sprinkling of knowledge. The house where there 
are no books is a dull house; the talk is amazingly 
dull talk. Reading makes pleasant conversation. 
George always has some good thing to read to 
Mary; or Mary some useful fact to repeat to 
George. A little learning in the family is like a 
little salt in the barrel, it keeps all sound and 
savoury. And, finally, I feel it incumbent on me 
to repeat what has been said more than once al¬ 
ready, that he who overtasks his days, has. no 
evenings. In our country, thank God, labour 
need not be immoderate to keep one alive. There 


EVENINGS AT HOME. 


237 


is such a thing as working too much, and thus be¬ 
coming a mere beast of burden. I could name 
some men, and more women, who seem to me to 
be guilty of this error. Consequently, when 
work is past they are fit for nothing but solid 
sleep. Such are the men and the women who 
have no domestic pleasures ; no reading, no im¬ 
provement, no delightful evenings at home. 


238 THE WORKING-MAN, 


XXXVIII. 

THE WORKING-MAN IN THE COUNTRY. 

“ As one who long in populous city pent 
Where houses thick and sewers annoy the air, 

Forth issuing on a summer’s morn to breathe 
Among the pleasant villages and farms 
Adjoin’d, from each thing met conceives delight, 

The smell of grain, or tedded grass, or kine, 

Or dairy, each rural sight, each rural sound-” 

Milton. 

Every man, until his taste is completely vitiated, 
and habit, a second nature, has inverted his na¬ 
tive propensities, will experience a satisfaction 
upon going into the country; and there is a par¬ 
ticular zest in the little excursions of the town- 
bred artisan, who leaves the brick, and mortar, 
and confined air within, to enjoy the»>gaiety and 
freshness of rural environs. These visits have 
pleasant associations. We connect them with 
fine weather, clean clothes, holidays, and good 
company; and it is not unlikely that much of the 
beauty of the country is merely an emanation 
from our own cheerfulness. Yet after every de¬ 
duction on this score, we shall all say with the 
poet, 

“ God made the country, but man made the town!” 



IN THE COUNTRY. 


23 9 


It is not wonderful, therefore, that many of our 
working-men, as soon as they are able, take their 
families into the country, either for the summer, 
or as a permanent residence. A large proportion 
of the snug little farms around our great towns, 
are tilled by mechanics, some of whom have re¬ 
tired from trade, while others still continue in bu¬ 
siness, and use these as their places of retreat. 
This tendency to the country seems to be on the 
increase, and I am persuaded it augurs well for 
the future respectability of the whole class. 
There are few mechanics in our land who may 
not look forward to the possession and occupancy 
of a few acres ; and the expectation is a very 
cheering one to those who have to ply their se¬ 
dentary tasks, year after year, in the same unven¬ 
tilated shops or lofts. There is a feeling of inde¬ 
pendence in surveying one’s own grounds, how¬ 
ever small in extent; there is a perpetual gratifi¬ 
cation of natural taste in the sights, sounds, and 
odours of the country; but there are more sub¬ 
stantial benefits. No device for the prevention of 
disease or the restoration of health, is comparable 
to that of moderate agricultural labour. The fresh 
air, the exhalation of newly opened furrows, the 
morning ride, the succession of vegetables and 
fruits, the continual variety of employments, the 
intervals of absolute rest, and the placid ease of 
mind, concur to keep the animal powers in their 
most healthful play. I scarcely know which sea¬ 
son most to covet: spring is balmy and full of 


240 THE WORKING-MAN, 

promise; summer affords gorgeous flowers and 
sunny harvest; autumn comes laden with fruits ; 
and even winter brings days of healthful labour 
and evenings of cheerfulness and improvement by 
the ample fire-place. 

There is no situation in which children may be 
brought up in greater security from the tempta¬ 
tions of a wicked world. They must, indeed, 
become somewhat restive ; they may, perhaps, be 
bashful, and will fail of having that precocious as¬ 
surance, and almost pertness, which one observes 
in too many city lads. But from how many 
moral defilements are they protected! Having 
had some trial of both situations in my earlier 
days, I do not hesitate a moment to say, that the 
temptations of boyhood are far less in a farm than 
in any other condition in life. Then we should 
take into the reckoning the strength, and agility, 
and manliness which are fostered in a country 
life. The youthful limbs are developed, and the 
constitution made robust by labour, sport, and ex¬ 
posure. Sometimes the little farmer strains the 
young horse across the meadow, or with his faith¬ 
ful dogs traverses the wood, and climbs high to 
dislodge the squirrel or the raccoon from the slen¬ 
der hickory. Or he dashes into the rapid stream, 
or rows his boat, or drives his herd into distant 
pastures, regardless of rains and snows, which 
would put in jeopardy the lives of more effemi¬ 
nate boys. Certainly the solids of physical edu¬ 
cation are best secured in the country. 


IN THE COUNTRY. 


241 


My old neighbour, Henry Hope, is an instance 
of the good effect of a timely retreat into the 
country. After working many years at the hat¬ 
ter’s trade, he began to show signs of primitive 
decay. He had contracted a stoop in the shoul¬ 
ders, and his complexion was of a dirty yellow. 
Without entirely giving up his business, he in¬ 
vested some of his savings in a little property four 
miles out of town. Every year found him more 
and more of a farmer, until last spring he sold out 
his whole mechanical establishment, and betook 
himself to the green fields. I lately visited him, 
and was entertained with the complacency of his 
air, as he took me over his grounds. “ There,” 
said he, “are my stacks of wheat; not more, 
perhaps, than six hundred bushels; but then my 
oum , in every sense. There, on the right, you 
see I am putting up a new barn, and cover for 
my cattle. That spring-house of white stone is 
as cool as winter; the clear water trickles over 
the brick floor at all seasons. Near by, you may 
see my meadow, with the brook running through 
the midst of it. The double row of willows is to 
protect a causeway I have been making through 
that newly-drained swamp. But, come, I must 
not let you go till I have showed you my orchard, 
and explained my plans of grafting.” So he ran 
on, descanting now on his stock, now on his poul¬ 
try, exhibiting improved ploughs, and young 
hedges, until I was almost persuaded to turn 
farmer myself. 


21 




242 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


It is more than eighteen centuries since a Latin 
poet described, with enthusiasm, the lot of the 
husbandman: 

“ O happy, if he knew his happy state, 

The swain who, free from business and debate. 
Receives the easy food from nature’s hand, 

And just returns of cultivated land. 

Unvex’d with quarrels, undisturb’d with noise, 

The country king his peaceful realm enjoys— 

Cool grots, and living lakes, the flowing pride 
Of meads, and streams that through the valley glide. 
And shady groves that easy sleep invite, 

And, after toilsome days, a soft repose at night.”* 

A country where agriculture is the great pur¬ 
suit, is always a country advancing in civilization. 
Our own land still spreads out before the enter¬ 
prising young man so many millions of untilled 
acres, that it would seem to be a plain indication 
of Providence, that for some time to come we 
should be an agricultural people. There can be 
no serious comparison between the health, phy¬ 
sical and moral, of men in a thriving, rural dis¬ 
trict, and any equal number pent up in manufac¬ 
turing towns. In order to succeed in husbandry, 
great farms are by no means necessary. It has 
grown into a proverb, that men grow poor on 
large farms, and rich on small ones. But if a 
man wishes to do these things upon the widest 
scale, the West is all open before him, and he 
may sit down among thousands of acres. 

* Virgil. 


SATURDAY EVENING. 


243 


XXXIX. 

THE WORKING-MAN’S SATURDAY EVENING. 

“ Come, evening, once again, season of peace; 

Return, sweet evening, and continue long. 

Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, 

With matron step slow moving, while the night 
Treads on thy ^weeping train ! one hand employ’d 
In letting fall the curtain of repose 
On bird and beast, the other charged for man 
With sweet oblivion of the cares of day.” 

Cowpeb. 

No one familiar with the aspect of towns in¬ 
habited by artisans, needs to be informed that the 
close of the week is marked by very striking pe¬ 
culiarities. As the ponderous engine of human 
labour slackens its revolutions, and at length stands 
still, and gentle rest begins to spread her wing 
over the haunts of toil, there is at once an addi¬ 
tion made to the happiness of man, which no en¬ 
thusiasm can well overvalue. In a few moments 
we may apply to the great capital or manufactur¬ 
ing town, the expressive verse from Wordsworth’s 
famous sonnet on London Bridge. 

“And all that mighty heart is lying still!” 


244 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


The forge and the smithery are ceasing to 
smoke. The mighty arms and shafts moved by 
steam, are dropping into repose. The quick re¬ 
port of millions of manual utensils has terminated. 
Jaded animals, bowing their necks, are set free 
from the yoke; while innumerable sons and 
daughters of toil, released from the necessity of 
further work, are ready for rest or pleasure, for 
improvement or vice. The thought is pleasing. 
As I survey the crowded city, and allow my ima¬ 
gination to picture the details of the scene, I be¬ 
hold a thousand delightful images of domestic 
comfort. 

Now, according to an extensively prevalent 
usage, the well-earned reward of labour is re¬ 
ceived. Now the anxieties of the tedious week 
are suspended. Families, separated during the 
preceding days, come together, better prepared 
than at other times to aid one another, and to 
enjoy one another’s company. One unbroken 
day between two nights of unaccustomed repose, 
is a golden prize in expectation. The meeting of 
parents, brothers, sisters, children, sometimes of 
husband and wife, who have been kept apart by 
the stress of labour, is not without some points 
which deserve the poetic touch of a Crabbe or an 
Elliot. It is, with the virtuous, a season of hal¬ 
lowed affections. 

Happy is that working-man who, when, at the 
week’s end, he throws off, in the bath, the soils 


SATURDAY EVENING. 


245 


of labour, can with equal ease lay aside the wrong 
emotions or evil habits of the same period, and 
with a clear conscience prepare for the day of 
rest! Happy is the youth who, when he comes 
home to greet his aged parents, and the sister of 
whom he is proud, feels that no tarnish has come 
over his heart! Happy the blooming girl, how¬ 
ever lowly her calling, who enters the humble 
dwelling with the elastic tread of conscious inno¬ 
cence ! Blessed family, where the call to rest is 
but the signal for the renewal of every kindly af¬ 
fection ! 

I know that with some, even in early life, the 
end of the week is the beginning of a frolic. The 
time when wages are received is apt to be a sea¬ 
son of merriment if not of vice. In summer, 
multitudes, in every sort of hired vehicle, stream 
forth out of the various avenues of our cities and 
towns. In winter the streets resound till a late 
hour with the tread of idlers and debauchees. 
And in every season, Saturday night fills the 
taverns, oyster-houses, porter-cellars, and other 
resorts, with a double allowance of hale fellows. 
There is a triple consumption of tobacco and 
strong drink on these occasions. So that there is 
a dark side to the picture, as there is, indeed, to 
most pictures of human life. But even here, I 
find an illustration of some of my favourite posi¬ 
tions about the conservative influence of the do¬ 
mestic institution. The worst men, I will con- 


21 * 


246 


THE WORKING-MAN* 


tinue to affirm, are those who, either from choice 
or from necessity, have no home. Perhaps, out 
of a thousand families gathered after a week’s 
work, there is not one gathered for vicious indul¬ 
gence. Where youth are vicious, they commonly 
hate the hearthstone. Saturday evening is a good 
criterion of the attachment which a young man 
bears to the virtuous attractions of home. As the 
guardian angel of the fireside, woman has here a 
great and hopeful work. I wish I could impress 
on the wife, the mother, and the sister, the value 
of their influence in this particular. Make home 
delightful, and you will work wonders. That 
wayward youth may, perhaps, be won by sisterly 
invitation. Spare nothing that is fairly within 
your power to make it worth his while to spend 
his Saturday evening with the family. So long 
as you have this hold upon him, you may almost 
bid defiance to the attempts of evil companions. 

Let it never be forgotten, that we owe all these 
good influences to religion. There would be no 
Saturday evening, if there were no Christian Sab¬ 
bath. In countries where man and beast work 
seven days in the week, there is nothing which 
resembles the pleasant scenes to which I have al¬ 
luded. In such countries there is little of what 
we mean by home. Who would undertake to ex¬ 
plain to a French labourer the Cotter's Saturday 
Night ? 

And since I have been led to name that exqui- 


SATURDAY EVENING. 


247 


site production, I cannot leave it without com¬ 
mending' it to the attention of every working-man 
who sets a value on family quiet and contentment. 
This single effusion would not be bought too dearly 
at the price of all the other productions of Robert 
Burns. Though written with special reference to 
an agricultural population, it presents a scene 
which might be realized in the household of any 
good man of whatever calling. The return of 
the cottager, after his labours, is described with 
the feeling of one who knew what it was to come 
home weary from the plough. The return of the 
sons, and of the daughter, is described in the very 
dialect of nature; and the entrance of the lover 
is as arch as it is accurate. The chat, the joke, 
the supper, are all admirably told ; the crowning 
grace of the poem is the account of the family- 
worship : 

“ The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face, 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 

The sire turns o’er, wi’ patriarchal grace, 

The big ha? Bible , ance his father’s pride: 

His bonnet reverently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets* wearing thin an’ bare ; 

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 

And, Let us worship God ! he says, with solemn air.” 

The psalm is sung, the chapter is read; the 
family, led by “ the priest-like father,” bows in 


* Temples covered with gray locks. 


248 


THE WORKING-MAN, 


prayer; they separate with affectionate salutations. 
Well says Burns, whom none will suspect of 
being a fanatic: 

“ From scenes like these old Scotia’s grandeur springs, 
That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: 

Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

‘ An honest man’s the noblest work of God 
And, certes, in fair virtue’s heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind.” 






* 


t 


THE UNSTABLE WORKING-MAN. 249 


XL. 

THE UNSTABLE WORKING-MAN. 

A man so various that he seem’d to be 
Not one, but all mankind’s epitome: 

Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, 

Was every thing by turns, and nothing long. 

B ut in the course of one revolving moon 
Was chymist, fuller, statesman, and buffoon.” 

Drydeit, 

The character which Dryden gives of the 
witty and wicked Duke of Buckingham, may, 
with some little change, be applied to many of 
us who have no titles of nobility. There is no 
more common character among our young men, 
than that of Reuben: Unstable as water, thou 
shall not excel Nor do I know any class of 
persons in whom it is more unfortunate than in 
those who earn their living by industry ; because 
it is the very nature of their employment to re¬ 
quire patient continuance in one course. No trade 
can be either learned or practised without regu¬ 
larity and constancy. As I write with a principal 
reference to the young, I think it right to say 
here, that if the disease of instability is ever 


* Gen, xlix. 4, 


250 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


cured, it must be in youth; and the effort is one 
of the most important which could be suggested. 

Harry Vane is a young man of my neighbour¬ 
hood. He has good talents and good prospects, 
and has begun life with a pretty little sum of 
money from his father’s estate. But though he 
is not yet twenty-three, he has already lived in 
three houses, and set up two trades. He has 
very decided opinions to-day, but no one can in¬ 
sure their lasting till to-morrow. When he hears 
arguments on one side, he leans one way; when 
on the other side, he leans the other way. Hence, 
he is quite at the mercy of his companions; and 
being somewhat sensible of this, he tries to make 
up for strength of belief, by energy of assevera¬ 
tion. Nevertheless, he betrays himself at every 
step; for this is one of those things which can¬ 
not be hidden. Yane takes up his opinions on 
trade, politics, and religion, at second-hand. The 
task of reasoning, he resigns to Briggs, the post¬ 
master, and Brag, the apothecary, who are his 
cronies. He never sits down to think any thing 
out, and, therefore, he is never long of one mind. 
For when opinions come lightly, they will go 
lightly. They are trees without roots, easil) 
transplanted or blown down; reeds shaken with 
the wind; weathercocks turning with every breath. 
There is scarcely one of Vane’s opinions which 
his neighbours could not alter. His mind takes 
hold of truth with a paralytic grasp. True, this 
is sometimes amiable; but for the purpose of life. 


THE UNSTABLE WORKING-MAN. 251 

it is even worse than obstinacy: just as granite, 
however hard, is more useful than friable sand¬ 
stone. So much for his opinions. 

It is just the same with his feelings. Never 
have I seen an April sky so changeable as his 
temper. His tears and his laughter, his frowns 
and his caresses, maybe, at any moment, exchanged 
for one another. He shows this in his attach¬ 
ments. He rushes into new associations, to rush 
as quickly out of them. I have observed him 
for a few months together, and ever and anon I 
find him with new faces. I own it is the same as 
to his malignant feelings; he cannot hold spite; 
but still, with such fickleness, he never can be a 
man of strength, either for good or evil. 

It is the same with his habits. Vane never 
walks long enough in any one direction to wear a 
track. He breaks down in his journey, for want 
of patience. He is driven out of the road, for 
want of courage. I should as little expect to find 
him two successive days in the same state, as to 
see the moon rise for two nights at the same hour. 

I have more serious things to say. Vane is 
unstable in his principles. By a man of prin¬ 
ciple, I mean one who acts for reasons, which he 
can show and defend. What he does, he has be¬ 
fore resolved to do. He has made up his mind 
as to the right and wrong of actions before he is 
brought to trial. Such a man is not Harry Vane. 
He lacks the very thing which distinguishes the 
man of principle, namely, perseverance in a de- 


252 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


termined course. On one day he seems quite 
correct, the next almost dissolute. To-night he 
plays cards: to-morrow, he will join the temper¬ 
ance society. And this because he has no govern¬ 
ing principle. 

It was good advice which a father once gave to 
his boy : “ My son, learn to say no.” There is 
as much energy in this short word, as in any ex¬ 
pression in human language. But what object is 
more pitiable, than the poor, pliant young man, 
who cannot stand out against the gentlest wind of 
temptation, or resist the sneer or the entreaty of 
bad companions ! I have often thought, therefore, 
that there is as much greatness as safety, in com¬ 
plying with the caution : “My son, when sinners 
entice thee, consent thou not.” Better far would 
it be for our youth, if they would barter away a 
good portion of pompous swagger and braggart 
imbecility, for the quiet dignity of that firmness 
which will not yield an inch to the importunity 
of vice. 

Let me return to my subject. I have spoken 
of the opinions, the feelings, and the habits of 
Harry Vane. Answerable to these is his universal 
conduct. He is in every circumstance of his life 
a poor fickle young man. In labour, in amuse¬ 
ment, in friendship, he is still the same. He forgets 
that what he is becoming now, he will be for life. 
He is quick, amiable, and generous, but he is un¬ 
stable,. and this gives a sickly hue to his whole 
constitution. He begins a thousand things; he 


THE UNSTABLE WORKING-MAN. 253 

begins them with zeal, with enthusiasm, with ex¬ 
pectation, perhaps with rapture—but he ends none 
of them. Vane’s life, so far as I can see, is likely 
to be a series of abandoned enterprises. He may 
talk big, and play the man ; but, like the bells on 
a fool’s cap, his actions betray him at every 
motion. 

I wish every young reader of this page would 
for a moment lay aside the book, and ask himself 
how nearly he resembles Harry Vane. There is 
great room for self-deception here. The evil in 
question is often allied with some of the gentler 
traits of character. Arising from a certain soft¬ 
ness, it easily couples itself with pity, mildness, 
benevolence, and even generosity. But do not 
err; unless you can end your day as you begin 
it; unless you can begin the same thing a hun¬ 
dred times over; unless you can bid defiance to 
weariness and sloth; unless you can be for a 
thousand days what you are the first of them; un¬ 
less you can bear and forbear, and resist beseech- 
ings, and example, and raillery, and neglect, you 
may, indeed, be an agreeable lady’s companion; 
you may be esteemed in the little circle of your 
friends; you may be popular among those who 
bend your flexible will to their own purposes; but 
you must forever forsake the expectation of being 
manly, influential, or truly great and useful. Let 
me dwell a minute or two on this. 

Fickleness is usually accompanied by other bad 
traits. Certain vices grow in clusters. If you 
22 


254 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


are fickle, I shall expect to find you a superficial 
reasoner. The unsteady man is frequently— 
though not always—timid. A measure of irreso¬ 
lution is certainly implied. Resolved purpose 
cannot be expected in him who is perpetually 
changing. In the same bed of noxious weeds, 
springs up indolence in all its forms. As there is 
a want of self-reliance, there will be a disposition 
to lean upon others. As there is lack of prin¬ 
ciple, there will be many violations of duty. 

All great works are accomplished by constancy. 
Perseverance in labour wears away rocks, chan¬ 
nels our plains, tunnels our mountains and this 
perseverance is produced and insured by uniformity 
of judgment and of passion. The unstable have 
no unity of plan. A thousand threads are spun 
for a little distance, only to be snapped and ex¬ 
changed for others. Great men of every age, 
whether scholars, statesmen, soldiers, or philan¬ 
thropists, have been men of decision, of con¬ 
stancy, of single purpose. Such men were New¬ 
ton, Washington, Watt, and Fulton. 

Where fickleness predominates, there will al¬ 
ways be a general debility of character. Say that 
a youth is changeable, and by that word you fix 
on him a stigma of weakness and meanness. It 
matters little what is his trade or employment. 
There are no employments which do not demand 
uniformity and constancy of effort. Moreover, it 
is a blemish which cannot be concealed: the 
world will know it; and this is a matter on which 


THE UNSTABLE WORKING-MAN. 255 

the world judges aright. Whatever may be the 
reigning enterprise, the fickle man is thought unfit 
for it. Are important plans on foot ? he is sure 
to be left out. No one will embark on a vessel 
without rudder, without anchor, without ballast, 
without pilot,—which can do nothing but go be¬ 
fore the wind. But such is the fickle man. He 
is unsafe in every emergency, because he may 
change his mind before the work is even begun; 
and he is prone to be the slave of other men’s 
opinions. And, by the rebound of public opinion, 
the unstable man sometimes gains a view of his 
own weaknesses, and is filled with self-contempt. 
For, as I have hinted above, he is not necessarily 
a fool; nay, he may be clever and ingenious ; he 
may have candour and generosity, and every thing 
except the manly virtues. But, wanting these, and 
sensible of the great defect, and shocked by the 
contrast of nobler minds, he shrinks from the 
view, and often retires from attempting any thing 
worthy of notice. 

There is nothing in which the unstable man 
meets with more losses than in the affairs of 
morals and religion. There are many who have 
begun very well, have entered the Christian course 
with great alacrity, but have fallen out during the 
race. If it were as easy to complete as to begin, 
most of us would do well. Some will, perhaps, 
read these lines, who have lost all the religious 
emotions which once possessed their minds, and 
who are likely to be the victims of instability. 


256 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


As was said before, if this great error is ever 
amended, it must be in youth ; and to be amended 
it must be detected. Some will tell us it is all in 
natural temperament, or in the organs of the brain; 
and it cannot be denied that there are great differ¬ 
ences in the constitutions of men : all are not 
moulded of the same clay. Yet here, as in a 
thousand similar instances, the pains of education, 
and especially of self-control, are not in vain. 
Even a bad constitution may be kept alive and 
strengthened, which, if let alone, would soon go 
to ruin. 

It is the ruinous mistake of many to suppose 
that mere talent can insure success without con¬ 
stancy and perseverance. One of the most inge¬ 
nious men I have ever known, is at the same time 
the most useless member of society. With abili¬ 
ties which might have made his fortune long ago, 
he is little above the condition of a pauper. At a 
very early age he was apprenticed to a cabinet¬ 
maker, with whom he served about half his time, 
and learned the simpler operations. During this 
time, however, he invented a machine for making 
sausages, for which he received a handsome sum 
from a neighbouring butcher. It isdiard to say 
what trade he is of, for he plies almost every sort 
of handicraft. I lately consulted him about a 
crazy bathing-tub, but found that he had ceased to 
be a cooper, and was manufacturing shoemakers’ 
lasts. He has made reeds for weavers, bird-cages, 
and wire-safes; he has taken out several patents 


THE UNSTABLE WORKING-MAN. 257 

for churns, and has even tinkered a little about 
clocks and watches. But, then, his patents do 
him no good, for he has not resolution to fulfil his 
orders, and his occupations are so various that no 
one knows where to find him. Yeti never met 
with any who did not grant that this same fellow 
was one of the greatest mechanical geniuses in 
our neighbourhood. But mere cleverness, without 
strength of character, can never make a man re¬ 
spectable, useful, or happy. 

' V • a "-- * 


22* 


258 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


XLI. 

THE WORKING-MAN^ GOOD WORKS. 

“Let humble Allen, with an awkward shame, 

Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.” 

Pope. 

It is an unwilling tribute to moral principle, 
that even the most hardened of our race dislike 
to be called selfish. It needs little instruction 
and little philosophy to show a man that he does 
not live entirely for his own interest; and the 
slightest experience is sufficient to prove that he 
who tries to do so offends against his own happi¬ 
ness. The person who cares for nobody but 
himself, is in every sense a wretch, and so glaring 
is this wretchedness in the case of the money- 
slave, that we have borrowed a- word of this im¬ 
port from Latin, and call him a miser. 

From their earliest years, our children should 
be taught this simple but invaluable lesson, that 
benevolence is bliss. Do good and be happy. 
We are most like God, the happiest of all beings, 
when we are most beneficent. In pursuance of 
this, I would bring up my child to feel that his 
cake, or his penny, or his orange was to be shared ; 
that for this purpose it is given ; and that he fails 


THE WORKING-MAN’S GOOD WORKS. 259 

of his pleasure if this end is not attained. I would 
make it one of his chief rewards to carry aid to 
the poor, and would give him an early chance of 
being my almoner. And when fit opportunities 
occurred, I would take him with me to see for 
himself the happiness effected by his own little 
. gifts. For it is apt to slip from our thoughts that 
in moral as well as in intellectual principles and 
habits, the mind is made by education. Con¬ 
science and the affections are almost latent in the 
savage, or the London thief, or the young slave- 
trader ; and a child bred in the forest would be 
only above the ourang-outang, in morals as in 
reason. A difference not so great, yet by no 
means unimportant, is to be observed in the 
children of different families, in respect to kind¬ 
ness of feeling and beneficence of action. Let 
us aim to bring up our little ones to deeds of 
mercy. 

Do we, however, who are parents, teach them 
by example ? Have we any plans for doing good? 
Are we not quite content to let days roll by, in 
which we have not conferred a real benefit on any 
fellow-creature ? Is the impression deep in our 
own minds, that there is a luxury in doing good, 
and that it ig its own reward ? Benevolence 
should be cherished by contemplating the charac¬ 
ters of such as have acquired the blessed reputa¬ 
tion of philanthropists: though there are thou¬ 
sands who never have the name, because they 
have modestly shunned the publicity. 


260 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


Travellers in Herefordshire are still shown the 
arm-chair of John Kyrle, the original of Pope’s 
“ Man of Ross.” Of his history not much can 
be recovered, and this little is preserved entirely 
by the memorials of his good deeds ; for he lives 
in the recollection of the poor in that neighbour¬ 
hood. He does not seem to have been remark¬ 
able for any thing but his beneficence. As we 
learn, on good authority, that the celebrated lines 
of the poet are not exaggerated, we prefer his 
elegant description to any thing of our own: 

“ But all our praises why should lords engross ] 

Rise, honest Muse ! and sing the Man of Ross. 

Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, 

And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. 

Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows 1 
Whose seats the weary traveller repose ? 

Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise 1 
1 The Man of Ross,’ each lisping babe replies. 

Behold the market-place, with poor o’erspread; 

The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread; 

He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state, 
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate; 

Him portion’d maids, apprenticed orphans bless’d, 

The young who labour, and the old who rest. 

Is any sick]—the Man of Ross relieves, 

Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes and gives. 

Is there a variance 1—enter but his door, 

Balk’d are the courts, and contest is no more. 

O say, what sums that generous hand supply ] 

What mines, to swell that boundless charity ] 

Of debt and taxes, wife and children clear, 

That man possess’d—five hundred pounds a year.* 


THE WORKING-MAN’S GOOD WORKS. 261 

In his own particular sphere, and with due 
allowance made for circumstances, every man 
who has a little substance and a little leisure, may 
be a Man of Ross. “ The most worthless,” it 
has been said, “ have at times, moments in which 
they wish to rise out of the slough of their pas¬ 
sions, and be beneficially employed; and many 
of the best lose opportunities of effecting much, 
by neglecting the common materials within their 
reach and aspiring to what is beyond them.” I 
have known weakly benevolent persons to sigh 
for occasions of usefulness, when widows and 
orphans were suffering the extremities of want 
within a few hundred yards of their dwellings. 

I have often stood in amazement at the number 
of beneficent acts which my friend Joseph Pitson 
will accomplish, without taking away any thing 
considerable from his daily labours. He succeeds 
in this by husbanding his moments, watching for 
opportunities, and seizing upon them the instant 
•they appear. But it is genuine benevolence 
which gives him this alacrity. Among a thousand 
objects presented to his attention, Joseph’s eye 
singles out at a glance that to which he can be 
useful; if the comparison is not out of place, just 
as the bird of prey pounces upon its quarry. 
When, not long since, I spent one or two days 
together with him in settling the affairs of a de¬ 
ceased friend’s estate, I was often called to won¬ 
der at the multiplicity of his acts of kindness. 
On one day in particular, he was perpetually fly- 


262 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


ing from business to charity, and yet not appa¬ 
rently to the disadvantage of either. When 
breakfast was over, he had two plates and as 
many bowls of coffee despatched to the sick 
father of one of his apprentices. Shortly after, 
he stole ten minutes to run across the way, to 
arrange something towards a Temperance meeting 
in the evening, and to drop three tracts into as 
many country market-carts. A woman called 
him out to ask advice about a drunken son, who 
had been arrested in a riot. Then he had notices 
to sign as chairman of a committee respecting the 
improvement of schools. These did not alto¬ 
gether take up more of his time than the filling 
and smoking of three or four pipes would of my 
old friend Stith’s. While I was at my dinner, 
Joseph had walked half a mile to see about the 
indentures of widow Jones’s boy, and had his 
meal into the bargain. In the afternoon he made 
his wife accomplish almost as much more, and I 
sat down with him at tea in company with three 
or four religious friends from a distance, who 
were sharing his hospitality, and who were to be 
present at the meeting after dark. 

I wish what I am saying might induce the 
reader of these pages to lay down the book for a 
moment, and to ask himself these questions : Am 
I doing any good in the world ? What proportion 
of my gains do I allot to acts of charity ? Am I 
active in giving personally to the relief of those 
whom I hear to be in distress ? Do I take any 


THE WORKING-MAN’S GOOD WORKS. 263 

pains to seek out such cases ? What poor, or 
otherwise suffering persons, are there in my im¬ 
mediate neighbourhood, to whom I have never 
extended any relief? A little self-catechising of 
this sort would not be thrown away, now and 
then, upon the best of us. 

The saying of the wise man is remarkable : 
“ There is that scattereth, and yet increaseth; and 
there is that withholdeth more than is meet, but 
it tendeth to poverty.” Tithe, and be rich, is the 
Jewish proverb. “ I am verily persuaded,” says 
Gouge, a writer of the seventeenth century, “ that 
there is scarcely any man who gives to the poor 
proportionably to what God has bestowed on him; 
but, if he observe the dealings of God’s provi¬ 
dence toward him, will find the same doubled and 
redoubled upon him in temporal blessings. I 
dare challenge all the world to produce one in¬ 
stance (or at least any considerable number of in¬ 
stances) of a merciful man, whose charity has 
undone him. On the contrary, as the more the 
living wells are exhausted, the more freely they, 
spring and flow, so the substance of charitable 
men frequently multiplies in the very distribution: 
even as the five loaves and few fishes multiplied, 
while being broken and distributed, and as the 
widow’s oil increased by being poured out.” 


264 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


XLII. 

THE WORKING-MAN ? S REST. 

“ O, day most calm, most bright! 

The fruit of this, the next world’s bud; 

Th’ endorsement of supreme delight, 

Writ by a friend, and with his blood; 

The couch of time; care’s balm and bay : 

The week were dark, but for thy light; 

Thy torch doth show the way.” 

Herbert. 

There is no engine which can work forever. 
There must be intermissions to oil the joints and 
wheels, and supply the losses by wear and tear. 
Not even the human frame, the most wonderful 
and complete of all machines, can do its work 
without some remission. It is so constituted as 
to require the supplies of food and sleep, at least 
once every twenty-four hours. But something 
more than this is needed. After several days of 
toil, both the body and the mind ask for respite. 
It is too much to have all our powers and all our 
thoughts day after day and month after month 
bent intensely upon the same object. Either body 
or mind, or both together, must infallibly break 
down under such a strain. 


THE WORKING-MAN^ REST. 265 

Our beneficent Creator has kindly provided for 
this necessity of nature, by the institution of the 
Sabbath, which is older than Christianity, and 
older than the Mosaic law ; having been ordained 
immediately after the creation. It is set apart as 
a day of rest, which the name imports; a day of 
devotion, of instruction, and of mercy. If it is a 
mercy to the world at large, it is a seven-fold 
mercy to the working-man, who cannot possibly 
thrive without this, or some similar refreshment. 
The beast of burden sinks under perpetual loads, 
and the law of the human constitution is just as 
binding, which enjoins periodical and sufficient 
rest. 

Men may try to brave the authority of heaven; 
but they do it to their own great loss, even in a 
worldly point of view. Take one week with 
another, and the man who works seven days ac¬ 
complishes no more than he who works six. 
Careful observers tell us, that they never knew 
any one to grow rich by Sunday labour. 

It is strange that any arguments should be 
needed in behalf of the Sabbath. Every thing 
that accompanies it is delightful. The hum, and 
whirl, and crash of business come to an end. 
Serene repose broods over the face of nature. 
Families separated during the week, now come 
together; and parents greet their sons and daugh¬ 
ters. The very cleanliness which the Sabbath 
brings with it has a charm. Even the poorest 
who observe the day, are now in their best ap- 
23 





266 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


parel; and I am one of those who believe that 
to be neat and tidy has a decided moral influence. 
As the tradesman or the mechanic, who has been 
confined, for some days* walks abroad, leading his 
little ones to the Sunday-school or the church, he 
feels a complacency which nothing else could 
produce. If his turn is serious, he will be led to 
contemplate the Creator in his works ; and, espe¬ 
cially in the fairer seasons of the year, to rejoice 
with rejoicing nature. 

But it is at church that we discern the greatest 
advantages of the Sabbath. There is a little com¬ 
munity met in their best suit, in their best humour, 
for the most important business of the week. If 
it is in the country, the scene is often enchanting. 
The old church stands on some eminence, sur¬ 
rounded by ancient trees, beneath which are scat¬ 
tered the grassy mounds that mark the resting-- 
place of the dead. Friends are now exchanging 
kind looks and salutations, who meet at no other 
time during the week. There is scarcely a dull 
eye or a lack-lustre face among the groups which 
crown every knoll of the wide enclosure. So 
that, long before public worship begins, there is 
a benign, moral influence at work. How much 
more pure and genial is the social spirit thus 
awakened than that which is engendered at wakes, 
auctions, and town-meetings : and how little real 
community of feeling would there be in a neigh¬ 
bourhood where there was no such weekly 
gathering! 


THE WORKING-MAN’S REST. 267 

But enter the house of God, and catch the im¬ 
pression of the sacred scene. The vision of the 
poet is realized: 

“ Fast the church-yard fills; anon 
Look again, and they are gone ; 

The cluster round the porch, and the folk 
Who sat in the shade of the prior’s oak ! 

And scarcely have they disappear’d 
Ere the prelusive hymn is heard :— 

With one consent the people rejoice, 

Filling the church with a lofty voice, 

A moment ends the fervent din, 

And* all is hush’d without and within.”* 

Who can calculate the softening, elevating, hal¬ 
lowing influences of such a service once every 
week! Fifty-two Sundays, every year, is this 
custom spreading its blessed fruits of peace and 
good order. Consider next the instructions of this 
sacred season. “ Here,” says a popular writer, 
“on a day devoted to no employment but the 
gaining of this knowledge, and the performance 
of those religious duties which unite with it in 
perfect harmony ; in a place convenient and 
sacred; on an occasion infinitely important; and 
with the strong power of sympathy to aid and 
impress ; a thousand persons are taught the best 
of all knowledge; the most useful to themselves 
and the most beneficial to mankind; for a less 
sura than must be^pxpended by a twentieth part 


* Wordsworth, 


268 THE WORKING-MAN. 

of their number in order to obtain the same in¬ 
struction in any other science. No device of 
the heathen philosophers, or of modern infidels, 
greatly as they have boasted of their wisdom, can 
be compared, as to its usefulness, with this. The 
Sabbath, particularly, is the only means ever de¬ 
vised of communicating important instruction to 
the great mass of mankind.” 

For these reasons the habit of church-going is 
of great value to every man, and above all price 
to such as have not received a thorough education. 
I like to see the head of a family bringing all his 
household to public worship : children cannot 
begin too soon to enjoy so great a blessing. 

The afternoon and evening of Sunday afford a 
favourable opportunity for the religious instruction 
of children and dependants. In the stricter sort of 
old families this was as regular a thing as the return 
of the day. There are good occasions also for the 
reading of the Scriptures and of other good books. 
Happy is that domestic circle where this has been 
the habit of every member from his childhood. 

What time can be more favourable than this for 
acts of mercy! From the smallest gains some¬ 
thing may be laid by, on the first day of the week, 
for the poor, or for benevolent institutions. It is 
really surprising to observe how much more men 
will give in the course of a year in this way, 
than by random gifts of large amount. 

He who enters at all into "the spirit of what I 
have written, will not need to be warned against 


THE WORKING-MAN’S REST. 269 

/ 

Sunday dinners, visits to public gardens, rides or 
drives into the country, or any of the varieties of 
profane dissipation. Sir Matthew Hale is reported 
to have said, that during a long life he had ob¬ 
served the success of his weeks to turn out well 
or ill, according as he had observed or neglected 
the Lord’s-day. 



970 THE WORKING-MAN, 


XLIII. 

THE WORKING-MAN RETIRED FROM BUSINESS* 

“ O bless’d retirement, friend to life’s decline, 

Retreats from care, that never must be mine, 

How happy he who crowns, in shades like these, 

A youth of labour with an age of ease.” 

Goldsmith. 

An elderly man once expressed to me his sense 
of declining life, by saying, “ My birth-days 
begin to come very fast.” The years seem to 
run round faster as they approach their close ; so 
that it is a common saying among the aged, that 
time flies much more rapidly than when they were 
young. Every gray hair, every failing tooth, 
every wrinkle, and every decay of eyesight, ought 
to serve as a gentle hint, that we are going down 
trie hill; and yet I believe there is no one whom 
old age does not take by surprise. There is a 
fine moral in the little poem of the Three Warn¬ 
ings ,* those of us who begin to be shy of telling 
pur age would do well to read it. 

At this period of life, particularly where a man 
has had some prosperity, it is natural to think of 
retiring from business. What can be more rea- 
sonable than to desist from labour when the ne- 


RETIRED FROM business. 


271 


cessity for it is at an end, or to close the journey 
when the end has been attained ? This would be 
unanswerable, if the only end of labour and occu¬ 
pation was to make money: and though avarice 
would cling to the last possibility of turning a 
penny, every man of liberal feeling would be 
ready to cease when he has got enough, and to 
leave the field open for younger competitors. But 
there is a consideration of great importance which 
is too often left out, in this inquiry: I invite to it 
the serious attention of all elderly mechanics. 
After fifteen or twenty years of labour, occupa¬ 
tion becomes necessary to one’s comfort. This 
arises from a law of our constitution. Few men 
can break off a habit of long standing with im¬ 
punity, unless it be a habit which is injurious in 
itself. 

There is an illusion in most cases of sudden re¬ 
tirement from business of any kind. The veteran, 
when he lays down his arms, dreams of perfect 
peace: he finds ennui and satiety. When from 
ill-health or great infirmity there is no fitness for 
employment, nothing can be said; but I would 
warn all working-men against retiring unadvisedly. 
Charles Lamb’s admirable sketch of the “ Super¬ 
annuated Man,” is a case in point. At first there 
will be a feeling of release and exemption, as if 
a great burden had been thrown off; but after¬ 
wards, unless where there are great mental re¬ 
sources, the mind will turn upon itself. 

Instances will occur to every observing reader 


272 


THE WORKING-MAN, 


of men who have become miserable from this very 
cause. A highly respectable man of my ac¬ 
quaintance, who united the pursuits of agriculture 
and trade, found himself rich enough at threescore 
to give up both employments. He retired to a 
snug little retreat to spend the remainder of his 
days in repose. But he soon began to miss the ex¬ 
citement of regular business. His hours were now 
empty alike of work and pleasure, and as dull as a 
boy’s solitary holiday. He longed for the counter 
and the plough. At length he fell into a most de¬ 
plorable melancholy, which lasted for some years. 
If there is the slightest tendency to drink, it is 
apt to manifest itself at this critical season. Where 
the consequences are not so serious, how often do 
we see the retired mechanic gloomily revisiting 
his old haunts, pacing about the street with a dis¬ 
consolate air, and envying every whistling appren¬ 
tice that he meets. The following instance is given 
by Dr. Johnson: “ An eminent tallow-chandler in 
London, who had acquired a considerable fortune, 
gave up the trade in favour of his foreman, and 
went to live at a country-house near town. He 
soon grew weary, and paid frequent visits to his 
old shop, where he desired they might let him 
know their melting-days, and he would come and 
assist them; which he accordingly did. Here 
was a man to whom the most disgusting circum¬ 
stances in the business to which he had been used 
was a relief from idleness.” 

This change should be made, if possible, by 


RETIRED FROM BUSINESS. 27 3 

slow degrees, and the reins of business should 
not be altogether abandoned until several experi¬ 
ments shall have been made. Even aged and in¬ 
firm men may find great pleasure in some of the 
lighter employments of their trade, or in a general 
superintendence. 

It is in such cases as this that a little learning, 
and a taste for books, come admirably into play. 
To have nothing to do is the worst part of 
solitary confinement in jails: give the convict 
books, and he would soon become interested and 
comfortable. Give the old working-man his little 
library, and he will have a solace for his declining 
years. 

But there is another greater and more certain 
preventive of stupor and listlessness. Where 
there is a truly religious temper, old age is de¬ 
lightful. It is natural and seemly that old age 
should 

“ Walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore 
Of that vast ocean it must sail so soon,” 

The consolations of the gospel will cast broad 
sunshine over the whole prospect. The glow of 
Christian love will soften every asperity, and 
mellow those dispositions which old age is apt to 
sour. And if the hoary man can take his staff, 
and, with benignant affection, walk about among 
children, grand-children, old friends, and neigh- 


274 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


hours, rousing them by his advice, instructing 
them by his example, and aiding them by his 
charities, he may do more good, and consequently 
enjoy more happiness in the close of his life than 
in all the vigour of his youth and manhood. 


THE WORKING-MAN IN OLD AGE. 275 


XLIV. 

THE WORKING-MAN IN OLD AGE. 

“ My morning walks I now could bear to lose, 

And bless’d the shower that gave me not to choose: 
In fact, I felt a languor stealing on; 

The active arm, the agilq hand were gone; 

Small daily actions into habits grew, 

And new dislikes to forms and fashions new: 

I loved my trees in order to dispose, 

I number’d peaches, look’d how stocks arose, 

Told the same story oft—in short, began to prose.” 

Crab be. 

In a long sitting by our fireside, the other even¬ 
ing, I had the whole subject of old age discussed 
between Uncle Benjamin and Mr. Appletree ; 
and some of the results I am disposed to set down, 
without trying, however, to keep up the form of 
dialogue, or to trace every remark to the respective 
speakers. Nevertheless, the reader may rest as¬ 
sured, that whatever is matter of daily observa¬ 
tion, is from uncle Benjamin, and whatever smacks 
of ancient times, from the schoolmaster. 

Old age takes men by surprise: this has been 
long observed. “ No one,” says Pliny, “ ever 
says, * the storks are coming,’ or, 1 they are going 
but always, «they have come,’ or, ‘ they have 


21 6 


THE WOREING-MAN. 


gonefor they both come and go secretly, and 
by night.” So it is with old age: we do not 
perceive its approach. At length, however, the 
head becomes cold from its baldness; the last 
stump forsakes the gums; it is a labour to bend 
the joints, to mount a horse, or to go up stairs; 
there is a drumming in the ears, and the eyes 
almost refuse the aid of useless glasses. And 
then comes the sense of decline; it is well called 
the winter of the year. “ When men wish for 
old age,” says St. Augustin, “ what do they de¬ 
sire but a long disease ?” 

A life of moderate labour, if the habits are good 
in other respects, is one of the best securities for 
a mild old age. But, in point of fact, working¬ 
men very seldom think it necessary to observe 
caution in this particular during their strong days, 
and they pay the penalty at the close of life, in 
stiff joints, a crooked back, and many pains and 
infirmities which need not be mentioned. Disease 
and sorrow sometimes sour the temper, and the 
old man becomes complaining, peevish, and 
moody. The grasshopper becomes a burden, and 
fears increase; he carries caution to the extreme 
of timidity, and has a distressing irresolution 
about the smallest concerns. These evils are of 
course greatly aggravated if he is poor, widowed, 
and childless. In such a case, unless the blessings 
of religion come in to cheer the prospect, one 
might almost see the saying of Diogenes made 
true, that a poor old man is the most wretched 


THE WORKING-MAN IN OLD AGE. 277 

of mortals. And though I would not say a word 
to inculcate a miserly temper, it is certainly right 
to remind our young men, that a youth of prodi¬ 
gality will have an old age of want. After a life 
even of laborious pursuits, we sometimes see old 
people in this melancholy condition. 

“ Nor yet can time itself obtain for these 
Life’s latest comforts, due respect and ease; 

For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age 
Can with no cares except its own engage; 

Who, propp’d on that rude staff, looks up to see 
The bare arms broken from the withering tree, 

On which, a boy, he climb’d the loftiest bough, 

Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now.” 

This is far from being true of every old man. 
Indeed, where there have been habits of frugality, 
foresight, temperance, and religion, old age is 
often like a summer’s evening after a day of toil. 
Especially may it be so to one who has not de¬ 
sisted prematurely from active labours, and who 
looks back upon a long life filled with industrious 
perseverance and useful deeds. In one of the 
most pleasing chapters of Paley’s Natural Theo¬ 
logy, that benevolent philosopher cites the case 
of comfortable old age as remarkably illustrating 
the goodness of the Deity. “ It is not for youth 
alone, that the great Parent of creation hath pro¬ 
vided. Happiness is found with the purring cat, 
no less than with the playful kitten; in the arm¬ 
chair of dozing age, as well as in either the 
24 


278 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


sprightliness of the dance, or the animation of the 
chase. To novelty, to acuteness of sensation, to 
hope, to ardour of pursuit, succeeds what is, in 
no inconsiderable degree, an equivalent for them 
all, ‘ perception of ease.’ Herein is the exact 
difference between the young and the old. The 
young are not happy, but when enjoying pleasure; 
the old are happy when free from pain. And this 
constitution suits with the degree of animal power 
which they respectively possess. The vigour of 
youth was to be stimulated to action by impa¬ 
tience 'of rest; whilst, to the imbecility of age, 
quietness and repose become positive gratifica¬ 
tions. In one important respect the advantage is 
with the old. A state of ease is, generally speak¬ 
ing, more attainable than a state of pleasure. I 
am far, even as an observer of human life, from 
thinking that youth is its happiest season, much 
less the only happy one: as a Christian, I am 
willing to believe that there is a great deal of truth 
in the following representation, given by a very 
pious writer, as well as excellent man :* * To the 
intelligent and virtuous, old age presents a scene 
of tranquil enjoyments, of obedient appetites, of 
well-regulated affections, of maturity in know¬ 
ledge, and of calm preparation for immortality.’ ” 
Among the humbler circles of society, in dwell¬ 
ings seldom entered by the rich or gay, I have 
seen beautiful examples of this. What sight is 


Father’s Instructions, by Dr, Percival. 


THE WORKING-MAN IN OLD AGE. 279 

more lovely, than that of a gray-haired father, 
seated by the glowing hearth, surrounded by 
children and grand-children, who hang upon his 
instructions, and fly to anticipate his every want! 
“ Children’s children,” says Solomon, “ are the 
crown of old men.” Where the flfth command¬ 
ment has been inculcated and obeyed, old age 
derives many indescribable comforts from the 
affectionate respect of youth. Among the Chi¬ 
nese, it is well known that filial reverence is car¬ 
ried to a degree little short of'religious worship. 
To speak carelessly to parents, is with them a 
heinous crime; to raise the hand against them, a 
capital one. Providence sometimes repays men 
in their own coin. Those who have been undu- 
tiful sons, are often made to smart as neglected 
parents. There are few spectacles more disgrace¬ 
ful than that of aged parents surrounded by idle 
sons, living upon their little remaining substance, 
and clinging to them, not to support them, but, 
like parasitical plants, to suck the last juices from 
their wasted trunks. It should be the pride and 
glory of youth, so far as practicable, to remove 
every annoyance from the old age of those who 
watched over- their helpless childhood. Let 
parents see to it, that they are bringing lip their 
children in such habits as are likely to make them 
a stay and prop to their declining years. 

Next to the affection of his own children, the 
old man will rank among his prerogatives the 
respect of society. There is something in the 


2S0 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


sight of any old man, even if he is a sober beg¬ 
gar, which awakes my respect. In some parts 
of the country it is, or was, the custom to give a 
respectful salutation to every aged person, whether 
rich or poor, known or unknown. It is a good 
custom, and speaks well for the social state of the 
land. I have been told of a gentleman who never 
allowed himself to speak to an aged person with¬ 
out being uncovered. Such was the Mosaic law : 
“ Thou shalt rise up before the hoary head, and 
honour the face of the old man, and fear thy God: 
I am the Lord.”* The principles of the ancient 
Lacedemonians were very strict in this particular, 
and such as may put some Christians to the blush. 
Their youth were daily taught to reverence old 
age, and to give the proofs of it on every suitable 
occasion, by making way for them, yielding the 
best places, saluting them in the street, and show¬ 
ing them honour in public assemblies. They 
were commanded to receive the instructions and 
reproofs of the aged with the utmost submission. 
In consequence of this, a Spartan was known 
wherever he went, and was considered as dis¬ 
gracing his country if he behaved otherwise. 
Cicero tells us of Lysander, that he used to say 
that Sparta was the place for a man to grow old in. 
The story is well known, as related by Plutarch, 
of the old man of Athens, at the theatre. Coming 
in late, he found all the seats occupied His 


* Lev, xix. 32. 


THE WORKING-MAN IN OLD AGE. 281 

young countrymen, by whom he passed, kept 
their seats, but when he came near the place where 
the Spartan ambassadors and their suite were 
sitting, they all instantly rose, and seated him in 
the midst of them ; upon which the house re¬ 
sounded with the applause of the Athenians. The 
old man quietly said, “ The Athenians know 
what is right, but the Spartans practise it.” If 
there is any form of self-complacency which is 
pardonable, it is that of the happy old man, who 
makes his circuit among the places of business, 
where he was once among the busiest, and re¬ 
ceives with a satisfied smile the regard of all 
around him. He seats himself in the shops, 
cracks his old jokes, repeats his old stories, lec¬ 
tures the boys, and sometimes breaks forth into a 
half-comic scolding of every thing pertaining to 
modern times. 

I look upon it as one of the great advantages of 
age, that it can freely give advice. This is what 
the rest of us cannot do so well. But who will 
be offended with the counsels, or even the rebukes 
of a venerable father, leaning on his staff, and 
shaking with that infirmity which is but the be¬ 
ginning of death ? The words and the example 
of old men are so effective, that I have sometimes 
thought the responsibility of this Season of life 
was not sufficiently felt. A man may do more 
good in this way after he is sixty, than in all his 
foregoing life. But it is to be done, not sourly, 
grimly, complainingly, or morosely, but with that 
24* 


282 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


gentleness which may show that it arises from 
true benevolence. 

It was observed by the ancients, that the beset¬ 
ting sin of old age is avarice. Strange, that the 
less one needs, the more he should desire ! Yet 
thus it is: and thus it will ever be, unless some 
better principles be infused in earlier life; the 
ruling passion will be strong even in death. In 
the following celebrated verses of Pope, it is now 
well known that the poet merely repeated the very 
words used on his death-bed by Sir William 
Bateman: 

“ ‘ I give, and I devise’ (old Euclio said, 

And sigh’d) ‘my lands and tenements to Ned.’ 

Your money, sir] * My money, sir! what, all? 

Why,—if I must—(then wept) I give it Paul.’ 

The manor, sir ] ‘ The manor! hold,’ he cried, 

‘Not that,—I cannot part with that’—and died.” 

Thus, I repeat it, old age will be liable to the 
madness of avarice, unless religious principle 
prevent; and even if religion has been neglected 
in former years, it should demand attention now, 
“ When a ship is leaking,” says Seneca, “ we 
may stop a single leak, or even two or three; but 
when all the timbers are going to pieces, our 
efforts are of no avail.” So in the human body, 
when old age shows that the fabric is breaking 
down, the soul ought to be looking out for a better 
habitation. Alas! few grow wise late in life. 
The most pleasing instances of old age are those 


THE WORKING-MAN IN OLD AGE. 283 


of persons who have attended to the best things 
in youth. Such there are, and they are among 
the greatest ornaments of religion. “ The hoary 
head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the 
way of righteousness.” The Christian old man 
shows fruit even in winter. Instead of being 
querulous, he is contented, hopeful, rejoicing. 
The natural sourness of declining years has been 
ripened into a delightful mellowness of temper, 
by the graces of religion. May such be the old 
age of the reader! 












284 


THE WORKING-MAN. 



XLV. 

CONCLUSION. 


“ ’Tis the only discipline we are born for; 

All studies else are but as circular lines, 

And death the centre where they must all meet.” 

Massinger. 


In the foregoing essays I have touched upon a 
great variety of subjects, and have passed “ from 
grave to gay,” from entertainment to instruction. 
There are many matters quite as. important which 
must be left unattempted. But I cannot bring 
myself to close, the volume without a word of 
counsel upon what is still more momentous than 
any to which I have alluded. Whatever our call¬ 
ing in life may be, it must come to an end; and 
however our paths may differ, they will all meet 
in the same termination. At death we shall be 
stripped of all our petty distinctions, and despoiled 
of all our worldly gains. 

He must be a very stupid or a very heedless 
man, who never asks himself what are the proba¬ 
bilities of his condition after death. A prosper¬ 
ous life here does not secure a prosperous life 
hereafter. The very heathen may rebuke us for 
our carelessness. Even the deist, if he believes 


CONCLUSION. 


285 


in the immortality of the soul, must have some 
solicitude about the nature of that immortality. 
Some persuade themselves that all men will cer¬ 
tainly be happy after death. This is a convenient 
doctrine for all who wish to enjoy vicious plea¬ 
sures ; but there is too much at stake for any 
man to adopt it without great consideration, and 
such arguments as defy all contradiction. It is 
against our rational feelings of justice, the com¬ 
mon judgment of all ages, and the plain meaning 
of the Bible. 

If there is, then, a risk of losing one’s soul, 
can a reasonable man leave the matter unsettled ? 
It has often filled me with astonishment to see 
men of the greatest foresight and discretion in 
worldly affairs, so ruinously careless in these. 
They would not consent to pay a small sum of 
money without taking a receipt; or to live in a 
house without insurance ; or to lend money with¬ 
out security; knowing that even where neigh¬ 
bours are honest, life is uncertain. But they will 
hazard their everlasting interests upon the merest 
chance. No one can predict what a day may 
bring forth. Death takes most of its victims by 
surprise. Yet the multitude live from year to 
year without any attempt at preparation. 

The undue value set upon wealth and temporal 
prosperity, is one great cause of this recklessness. 
All through life men are in chase of that which 
perishes as they grasp it. Give them all that 
their most eager wishes could demand, and you 


286 


THE WORKING-MAN. 


do not secure them for eternity. But there is a 
good part which cannot be taken away from them. 

No considerate man can reflect on his life, or 
examine his heart without acknowledging that lie 
is a sinner against God. The whole tenor of the 
Scriptures speaks the same truth. How am I to 
escape the punishment due to my sin ? This is 
the great question, on which every one ought to 
have some settled determination. He is not a 
wise man, who lies down at night without some 
satisfactory hope that sudden death would not ruin 
his happiness. 

The great truths of the Christian religion lie 
within a small compass. There is an agreement 
among all the conflicting sects of evangelical 
Christians as to a few cardinal points. They are 
such as these : that by nature men are children of 
wrath; that God will punish the impenitent; that 
we must be born again; that without faith it is 
impossible to please God; that he who believeth 
shall be saved, and he who believes not will be 
condemned. Further, the faith which saves us, 
regards chiefly the Lord Jesus Christ; that he is 
the Son of God; that he became man for our sal¬ 
vation ; that he bore our sins in his own body on 
the tree; that he rose again from the dead, and 
ascended into heaven; and that we are justified 
by faith in him. He who believes thus, and 
manifests this belief by corresponding works, is 
a true Christian. 

There is reason to think that infidelity is on 


CONCLUSION. 


2S7 


the wane in our country. About the time of the 
French revolution, the impious falsehoods of Vol¬ 
taire were making havoc among our youth. This 
arch-infidel once predicted that in twenty years 
the Christian religion would be no more! Those 
who were deceived by him found nothing but dis¬ 
appointment and wretchedness. Learned, witty, 
and applauded as he was, he had less real wisdom 
than the poorest and most ignorant Christian 
widow. 

“ She, for her humble sphere by nature fit, 

Has little understanding, and no wit; 

Receives no praise'; but though her lot be such, 
Toilsome and indigent, she renders much; 

Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true, 

A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew; 

And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes 
Her title to a treasure in the skies. 

O happy peasant! 0 unhappy bard! 

His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward; 

He praised, perhaps, for ages yet to come, 

She never heard of half a mile from home: 

He, lost in errors, his vain heart prefers, 

She, safe in the simplicity of hers.” 



THE END. 

















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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 






































































